A 
ofc 

IS  THE 
PRECIOUS 
LIFE-BLOOD; 

OF  A 

MASTER. 

-SPI RIT, 


77*  KINGS  TREASURIES 

OF     LITER.ATURE 


GENERAL  EDITOR 
SIR  AT  QLHLLER.  COUCH 


NEW  YORK:  E-P-DUTTON  AND  COMPAJ 


•*•  «         - 


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MODERN 
POETRY 


EDITED       BY 
GUYN-POCOCK 


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FIRST  EDITION,  Mwjugo.  REPRINTED,  October  1920 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


SINCERE  thanks  are  due  to  the  following  publishers, 
authors,  and  holders  of  copyrights,  for  their  kindness 
in  allowing  the  publication  of  the  poems  in  this  book. 
The  editor  has  been  anxious  to  include  what  is  best  in 
modern  poetry,  and  most  suitable  for  young  people, 
and  the  kindness  and  courtesy  they  have  shown  to 
him  in  giving  all  facilities,  forwarding  letters,  and  so 
forth,  has  been  most  helpful. 

Special  thanks  are  due  to  those  authors  who  went 
out  of  their  way  to  make  further  valuable  suggestions, 
and  in  more  than  one  case,  to  send  books,  and  new 
poems  of  their  own. 

Mr.  Laurence  Binyon  and  Mr.  Elkin  Matthews  for  John 
Winter,  from  "  London  Visions." 

Mr.  E.  H.  Blakeney  for  verses  To  a  Favourite  Cat,  from 
"  Poems  on  Peace  and  War,  1912-18." 

Mr.  W.  S.  Blunt  for  The  Old  Squire  and  St.  Valentine's  Day. 

Dr.  Robert  Bridges  and  Mr.  John  Murray  for  The  Win- 
nowers. 

The  literary  executors  of  the  late  Rupert  Brooke  for  The 
Soldier  and  part  of  The  Fish,  from  the  "  Collected 
Poems  of  Rupert  Brooke,"  published  by  Messrs. 
Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  Ltd. 

Mrs.  Frances  Cornford  and  Messrs.  Bowes  and  Bowes  for 
The  Princess  and  the  Gipsies. 

Mr.  Gerald  Cumberland  for  The  Winging  Souls. 


4^2599 


i  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Lord  Desborough  for  Captain  Julian  Grenfell's  Into  Battle. 
Mr.  Walter  de  la  Mare  for  Off  the  Ground  and  Epitaph. 
Mr.  John  Drinkwater,  Messrs.  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  Ltd., 

and   (by  special  arrangement)  The  Houghton  Mifllin 

Co.,  Boston,  for  Clouds. 
Mr.  W.  W.  Gibson  and  Mr.  El  kin  Matthews  for  Hit  and 

Messages. 

Mr.  Gerald  Gould  for  Fallen  Cities  and  Wander  Thirst. 
Mr.   Thomas   Hardy,  the   Editor  of  the  Times,  and  The 

Macmillan  Co.  of  New  York  for  Men  who  March  A  way. 
Mrs.    Henley   for  a  passage  from  Arabian  Nights  Enter- 
tainments, and   for   The  Passing   (Margaritae  Sorori), 

from  "  Echoes,"  by  the  late  W.  E.  Henley. 
Mr.  Ralph  Hodgson,  Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Ltd.,  and 

The  Macmillan  Co.  of  New  York  for  The  Bull  and 

Bells  of  Heaven. 
Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  and  Messrs.  Macmillan  and  Co.,  Ltd., 

for  Puck's  Song,  from  "  Puck  of  Pook's  Hill,"  and  The 

Way  through  the  Woods,  from  "  Rewards  and  Fairies." 
Mr.  Shane  Leslie  and  Messrs.  Burns,  Gates  and  Washbourne, 

Ltd.,  for  Fleet  Street. 
Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas  and  Messrs.  Methuen  and  Co.,  Ltd.,  for 

Jack,  reprinted  from  "  The  Open  Road." 
Mr.  John  Masefield  and  Mr.  W.  Heinemann  for  Sea  Fever, 

Laugh  and  be  Merry,  and  stanzas  from  "  Dauber." 
Mr.  Harold  Munro  for  Dog. 
Sir  Henry  Newbolt  and  Mr.  John  Murray  for  Messmates, 

The  Adventurers,^.^  Master  and  Man,  from  "  Poems 

New  and  Old." 
Mr.    Robert   Nichols,    Messrs.    Chatto    and   Windus,    and 

The  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.  for  The  Assault. 
Mr.  Alfred  Noyes  and  Messrs.  W.  Blackwood  and  Sons  for 

A  Song  of  England  and  The  Moon  is  Up. 
Mr.  Herbert  E.  Palmer,  the  Editor  of  the  English  Review, 

and  Mr.  Elkin  Matthews  for  The  Bushrangers. 
Mr.  Siegfried  Sassoon  and  Mr.  W.  Heinemann  for  Attack, 

from  "  Counter-attack  and  other  Poems." 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS  7 

Mr.  Sacheverell  Sitwell  and  Mr.  B.  H.  Blackwell  for  The 

Parrot. 

Mr.  James  Stephens  for  The  Snare. 
The   literary   executors    of   Walt   Whitman    and    Messrs. 

Doubleday,  Page  and  Co.  for  Animals,  The  Lumber- 
men's Camp,  and  Out  of  the  Cradle  endlessly  Rocking. 
Major  Francis  Brett  Young  and  Messrs.  W.  Collins  and 

Sons,  Ltd.,  for  Bete  Humaine. 
Mr.   Ernest  Rhys  and  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons  Ltd. 

for  Saint  Brendan  and  The  Leaf  Burners. 
Miss  Helen  Gray  Cone  and  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons 

Ltd.  for  The  Common  Street. 
Miss  Nora  Holland  and  Messrs.  J.  M.  Dent  and  Sons  Ltd. 

for  The  Sea-Wind,  Ships  of  Old  Renown,  and  Sea-gulls. 
The  Editor  of  the  Westminster  Gazette  and  Mr.  Guy  N. 

Pocock  for  Years  Ahead. 
Mr.  Martin  Seeker  for  J.  E.  Flecker's  poem  here  called 

Thoughts  of  England. 
Messrs.  Burns,  Gates  and  Washbourne,  Ltd.,  for  Francis 

Thompson's  The  Snowftake. 
Messrs.  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Ltd.,  for  W.  B.  Yeats'  Lake  Isle 

of  Innisfree. 
Messrs.  Chatto  and  Windus  and  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's 

Sons,  New  York,  for  R.  L.  Stevenson's  The  Vagabond, 

Christmas  at  Sea,  and  Requiem. 
Mr.  John  Lane  and  The  John  Lane  Company  of  New  York 

for  John  Davidson's  In  Romney  Marsh  and  Margaret 

Woods'  Gaudeamus  Igitur. 
Messrs.   Grant    Richards,    Ltd.,   for    John   Davidson's  A 

Runnable   Stag. 
Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  and  Co.  for  Bliss  Carman's  Joys 

of  the  Road. 
The  poem  entitled  A  Field  in  Ludwell  is  taken,  with  due 

acknowledgment,   from  "  Chosen  Poems/'   by  W.   J. 

Ibbert,  published  by  Mr.  A.  H.  Bullen  at  the  Shake- 
speare Head  Press,  Stratford-on-Avon. 


PART  I.— ENGLAND 


A  SONG  OF  ENGLAND 
PUCK'S  SONG 
THOUGHTS  OF  ENGLAND 
THE  SOLDIER 


Alfred  Noyes 
Rudyard  Kipling  . 
James  Elroy  Flecker 
Rupert  Brooke 


PAGE 
15 
18 

20 

22 


PART  II.— THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA 


SEA-FEVER 
JOHN  WINTER    . 
CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 
From  "  ECHOES  " 
SHIPS  OF  OLD  RENOWN 
SEA-GULLS 
MESSMATES 

NEARING  CAPE  HORN.    From 
"  DAUBER  " 


John  Masefield     .  .  26 

Laurence  Binyon  .  .  27 

R.  L.  Stevenson     .  .  31 

W.  E.  Henley       .  .  34 

Nora  Holland        .  .  34 

Nora  Holland        .  .  35 

Sir  Henry  Newbolt  .  37 

John  Masefield     .  .  38 


PART  III.— THE  CALL  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


WANDER-THIRST 

THE  WINNOWERS 

THE  VAGABOND 

THE     WAY     THROUGH     THE 

WOODS 

THE  ADVENTURERS 
THE   LAKE    ISLE    OF    INNIS- 

FREE   .... 
IN  ROMNEY  MARSH     . 
THE  JOYS  OF  THE  ROAD     . 
8 


Gerald  Gould 
Robert  Bridges 
R.  L.  Stevenson    . 

Rudyard  Kipling  . 
Sir  Henry  Newbolt 

W.  B.  Yeats 
John  Davidson 
Bliss  Carman 


43 
44 
46 

47 
48 

49 
50 
52 


CONTENTS  9 

PART  IV.— ANIMALS 

PAGE 

THE  OLD  SQUIRE         .          .      Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  .  59 

MASTER  AND  MAN       .          .     Sir  Henry  Newbolt  .  62 

A  RUNNABLE  STAG      .         .     John  Davidson      .  .  63 

%ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY          .      Wilfrid  Scawen  Blunt  .  67 

To  A  FAVOURITE  CAT           .     Edward  Henry  Blakeney  67 

THE  BULL           .          .          .     Ralph  Hodgson     .  .  69 

BETE  HUMAINE            .          .     Francis  Brett  Young  .  76 

THE  BELLS  OF  HEAVEN       .     Ralph  Hodgson     .  .  76 

THE  SNARE         .          .          .     James  Stephens     .  .  77 

ANIMALS     ....      Walt  Whitman      .  .  78 

THE  FISH  .          .                    .     Rupert  Brooke       .  .  78 

DOG            ...         •         .     Harold  Monro      .  .  80 

PART  V.— THE  GREAT  WAR 

MEN  WHO  MARCH  AWAY      .     Thomas  Hardy     .  .  87 

HIT Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  .  88 

THE  MESSAGES   ...          .      Wilfrid  Wilson  Gibson  .  89 

THE  ASSAULT      .          .          .     Robert  Nichols       .  .  go 

THE  BUSHRANGERS     ^        .     Herbert  E.  Palmer  .  94 

ATTACK       ....     Siegfried  Sassoon  .  .  95 

THE  CRICKETERS  OF  FLANDERS  A  nonymous          .  96 

INTO  BATTLE       .          .          .     Julian  Grenfell      .  .  98 

YEARS  AHEAD    .          .          .     Guy  N.  Pocock     .  .100 

CLOUDS       ....     John  Drinkwater  .  .  101 

THE  WINGING  SOULS  .          .     Gerald  Cumberland  .  102 

THE  DEAD  Fox  HUNTER      .     Robert  Graves        .  .  103 

PART  VI.— FANCY 

FROM      "  ARABIAN      NIGHTS 

ENTERTAINMENTS  "        .     W.  E.  Henley        .  .109 

FALLEN  CITIES    .          .          .     Gerald  Gould  1 1 1 


10 


CONTENTS 


PART  VI.— FANCY— continued 


FLEET  STREET    . 
OFF  THE  GROUND 
THE     PRINCESS     AND 

GIPSIES 

THE  MOON  is  UP 
To  A  SNOWFL.AKE 
THE  COMMON  STREET 


Shane  Leslie 
Walter  de  la  Mare 

Frances  Cornford  . 
Alfred  Noyes 
Francis  Thompson 
Helen  Gray  Cone  . 


PAGE 
112 


117 
IIQ 
120 
121 


PART  VII.—  LIFE  AND  DEATH 

LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY        .  John  Masefield     . 

GAUDEAMUS  IGITUR     .          .  Margaret  L.  Woods 

AN  EPITAPH        .          .          .  Walter  de  la  Mare 

REQUIEM    .          .          .          .  R.  L.  Stevenson     . 
THE     PASSING      (Margaritae 

Sorori]  .          .          .  W.  E.  Henley        . 

SAINT  BRENDAN  .          .  Ernest  Rhys          . 

THE  LEAF  BURNERS   .          .  Ernest  Rhys          . 

A  FIELD  IN  LUDWELL         .  W.  J.  Ibbert          . 


126 
127 

1  30 
1  30 


1  32 
133 
136 


PART  VIII.— FREE   VERSE 


JACK 

THE  LUMBERMEN'S  CAMP 

OUT   OF  THE   CRADLE   EN 

LESSLY  ROCKING  . 
THE  PARROT 


E.  V.  Lucas 
Walt  Whitman      . 

Walt  Whitman      . 
Sacheverell  Sitwell 


141 
146 

146 

156 


PART  IX.— A  NOTE  ON  FUTURIST  POETRY 


PART  1 
ENGLAND 


MODERN   POETRY 

PART  I.— ENGLAND 

THE  poems  chosen  for  this  section  are  not  Patriotic 
songs  in  the  commonly  accepted  sense  of  the  term. 
That  is  to  say,  they  do  not  slap  us  metaphorically 
on  the  back,  shouting  to  all  the  world — that  does  not 
want  to  listen — that  one  Englishman  is  worth  three 
men  of  any  other  nation,  that  Britannia  rules  the 
waves,  that  Britons  never,  never,  never  shall  be 
slaves,  and  so  on  and  so  forth.  Your  truly  patriotic 
poem  does  not  glorify  War  with  a  ranting  jingoism, 
nor  flaunt  a  swelled-headed  Imperialism  in  the  face 
of  exasperated  foreigners.  Rather,  it  expresses  the 
true  love  of  England  for  England's  sake — the  love 
of  English  scenery,  of  English  life  and  thought. 

There  is  a  wonderful  sense  of  intimacy  about  the 
poetry  of  the  Love  of  England.  "  There  is  a  song  of 
England  which  none  shall  ever  sing/'  for  this  true 
patriotism  lies  too  deep  for  expression  in  words.  It 
is  all  that  England  means  to  the  Englishman.  The 
'song'  is  within  us  already;  and  though  the  poet 


14     '/   ....^v.     .  ENGLAND 

may*  strike *tlie  ch'ord  in  'us,  he  need  not — indeed  he 
cannot — analyse  it.  Such  a  poem  as  the  Song  of 
England  may  not  be  so  sentimental  as  most  German 
songs  of  the  Fatherland,  nor  so  heroic  as  those  sung 
upon  the  theme  of  La  Patrie,  nor  so  yearning  as  the 
songs  of  Italia;  yet  it  breathes  a  more  confident 
and  intimate  love  than  any. 

Or  again,  the  poet  may  conjure  by  his  magic  art, 
as  he  does  in  Puck's  Song,  an  England  of  years  long 
gone  by.  Yet  he  does  not  guide  us  through  an  un- 
familiar pageant  of  the  centuries,  but  over  the  roads, 
and  fields,  and  downs  of  the  same  England  which  we 
know  and  love  to-day. 

Or  perhaps,  as  in  Mr.  Flecker's  poem,  the  Eng- 
lishman in  a  far  land  tells  of  what  England  means 
to  him.  And  this  is  not  the  Flag  that  braved  a 
thousand  years  the  battle  and  the  breeze,  but  the 
fields  shining  after  rain,  the  kingcups,  and  the  voices 
of  the  pines. 

Lastly,  in  the  sonnet  called  The  Soldier,  the  poet 
as  it  were  identifies  himself  with  England,  and  all 
that  England  stands  for  in  the  world.  Already  one 
of  the  best  known,  this  is  also  one  of  the  greatest 
sonnets  in  the  language;  for  it  is  probable  that  no 
poem  has  ever  been  written,  or  ever  can  be  written, 
to  convey  a  truer  and  more  intimate  love  of  England 
and  English  ideals.  Rupert  Brooke,  the  author  of 
this  poem,  the  youngest  and  most  promising  of  all 
modern  English  poets,  died  during  the  Dardanelles 
campaign,  and  was  buried  on  a  Greek  island. 


ALFRED   NOYES  15 

A  SONG   OF  ENGLAND 

THERE  is  a  song  of  England  that  none  shall  ever  sing; 

So  sweet  it  is  and  fleet  it  is 
That  none  whose  words  are  not  as  fleet  as  birds  upon 

the  wing, 

And  regal  as  her  mountains, 
And  radiant  as  the  fountains 
Of  rainbow-coloured  sea-spray  that  every  wave  can 

fling 
Against  the  cliffs  of  England,  the  sturdy  cliffs  of 

England, 

Could  more  than  seem  to  dream  of  it, 
Or  catch  one  flying  gleam  of  it, 
Above  the  seas  of  England  that  never  cease  to  sing. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  only  lovers  know; 

So  rare  it  is  and  fair  it  is, 
Oh,  like  a  fairy  rose  it  is  upon  a  drift  of  snow, 

So  cold  and  sweet  and  sunny, 

So  full  of  hidden  honey, 

So  like  a  flight  of  butterflies  where  rose  and  lily  blow 
Along  the  lanes  of  England,  the  leafy  lanes  of  England ; 

When  flowers  are  at  their  vespers 

And  full  of  little  whispers, 
The  boys  and  girls  of  England  shall  sing  it  as  they  go. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  only  love  may  sing, 

So  sure  it  is  and  pure  it  is; 
And  seaward  with  the  seamew  it  spreads  a  whiter  wing, 


16  ENGLAND 

And  with  the  skylark  hovers 

Above  the  tryst  of  lovers, 

Above  the  kiss  and  whisper  that  led  the  lovely  Spring 
Through  all  the  glades  of  England,  the  ferny  glades 
of  England, 

Until  the  way  enwound  her 

With  sprays  of  May,  and  crowned  her 
With  stars  of  frosty  blossom  in  a  merry  morris-ring. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  haunts  her  hours  of 

rest; 

The  calm  of  it  and  balm  of  it 
Are  breathed  from  every  hedgerow  that  blushes  to 

the  West: 

From  cottage  doors  that  nightly 
Cast  their  welcome  out  so  brightly 
On  the  lanes  where  laughing  children  are  lifted  and 

caressed 
By  the  tenderest  hands  in  England,  hard  and  blistered 

hands  of  England; 
And  from  the  restful  sighing 
Of  the  sleepers  that  are  lying 

With  the  arms  of  God  around  them  on  the  night's 
contented  breast. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  wanders  in  the  wind; 

So  sad  it  is  and  glad  it  is 

That  men  who  hear  it  madden  and  their  eyes  are  wet 
and  blind, 

For  the  lowlands  and  the  highlands 

Of  the  unforgotten  islands, 


ALFRED   NOYES  17 

For  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed,  and  the  rest  they 

cannot  find 
As  they  grope  in  dreams  to  England  and  the  love 

they  left  in  England; 
Little  feet  that  danced  to  meet  them, 
And  the  lips  that  used  to  greet  them, 
And  the  watcher  at  the  window  in  the  home  they  left 
behind. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  thrills 'the  beating 

blood 

With  burning  cries  and  yearning 
Tides  of  hidden  aspiration  hardly  known  or  under- 
stood; 

Aspirations  of  the  creature 
Tow'rds  the  unity  of  Nature ; 
Sudden  chivalries  revealing  whence  the  longing  is 

renewed 
In  the  men  that  live  for  England,  live  and  love  and 

die  for  England : 
By  the  light  of  their  desire 
They  shall  blindly  blunder  higher 
To  a  wider,  grander  Kingdom  and  a  deeper,  nobler  Good. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  only  God  can  hear; 

So  gloriously  victorious, 

It  soars  above  the  choral  stars  that  sing  the  Golden 
Year; 

Till  even  the  cloudy  shadows 

That  wander  o'er  her  meadows 
In  silent  purple  harmonies  declare  His  glory  there, 

B 


i8  ENGLAND 

Along  the  hills  of  England,  the  billowy  hills  of  England, 

While  heaven  rolls  and  ranges 

Through  all  the  myriad  changes 
That  mirror  God  in  music  to  the  mortal  eye  and  ear. 

There  is  a  song  of  England  that  none  shall  ever  sing : 

So  sweet  it  is  and  fleet  it  is 

That  none  whose  words  are  not  as  fleet  as  birds  upon 
the  wing, 

And  regal  as  her  mountains, 

And  radiant  as  the  fountains 

Of  rainbow-coloured  sea-spray  that  every  wave  can  fling 
Against  the  cliffs  of  England,  the  sturdy  cliffs  of  England, 

Could  more  than  seem  to  dream  of  it, 

Or  catch  one  flying  gleam  of  it, 
Above  the  seas  of  England  that  never  cease  to  sing. 

ALFRED  NOYES. 

PUCK'S  SONG 

SEE  you  the  ferny  ride  that  steals 
Into  the  oak-woods  far? 
O  that  was  whence  they  hewed  the  keels 
That  rolled  to  Trafalgar. 

And  mark  you  where  the  ivy  clings 
To  Bay  ham's  mouldering  walls? 
O  there  we  cast  the  stout  railings 
That  stand  around  St.  Paul's. 

See  you  the  dimpled  track  that  runs 
All  hollow  through  the  wheat  ? 


RUDYARD   KIPLING  19 

O  that  was  where  they  hauled  the  guns 
That  smote  King  Philip's  fleet. 

Out  of  the  Weald,  the  secret  Weald, 
Men  sent  in  ancient  years, 
The  horse-shoes  red  at  Flodden  Field, 
The  Arrows  at  Poitiers. 

See  you  our  little  mill  that  clacks 

So  busy  by  the  brook? 

She  has  ground  her  corn  and  paid  her  tax 

Ever  since  Domesday  Book. 

See  you  our  stilly  woods  of  oak? 
And  the  dread  ditch  beside? 
O  that  was  where  the  Saxons  broke 
On  the  day  that  Harold  died. 

See  you  the  windy  levels  spread 
About  the  gates  of  Rye? 
O  that  was  where  the  Northmen  fled, 
When  Alfred's  ships  came  by. 

See  you  our  pastures  wide  and  lone, 
Where  the  red  oxen  browse? 
O  there  was  a  City  thronged  and  known 
Ere  London  boasted  a  house. 

And  see  you,  after  rain,  the  trace 
Of  mound  and  ditch  and  wall  ? 
O  that  was  a  Legion's  camping-place, 
When  Caesar  sailed  from  Gaul. 

And  see  you  marks  that  show  and  fade 
Like  shadows  on  the  Downs? 


20  ENGLAND 

O  they  are  the  lines  the  Flint  Men  made 
To  guard  their  wondrous  towns. 

Trackway  and  Camp  and  City  lost, 
Salt  Marsh  where  now  is  corn ; 
Old  Wars,  old  Peace,  old  Arts  that  cease, 
And  so  was  England  born ! 

She  is  not  any  common  Earth, 
Water  or  wood  or  air, 
But  Merlin's  Isle  of  Gramarye. 
Where  you  and  I  will  fare. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 


THOUGHTS   OF  ENGLAND 

OH,  shall  I  never,  never  be  home  again ! 

Meadows  of  England  shining  in  the  rain 

Spread  wide  your  daisied  lawns :  your  ramparts  green 

With  briar  fortify,  with  blossom  screen 

Till  my  far  morning — and  O  streams  that  slow 

And  pure  and  deep  through  plains  and  playlands  go, 

For  me  your  love  and  all  your  kingcups  store, 

And — dark  militia  of  the  southern  shore, 

Old  fragrant  friends — preserve  me  the  last  lines 

Of  that  long  saga  that  you  sang  me,  pines, 

When,  lonely  boy,  beneath  the  chosen  tree 

I  listened,  with  my  eyes  upon  the  sea. 

O  traitor  pines,  you  sang  what  life  has  found 
The  falsest  of  fair  tales. 


JAMES   ELROY   FLECKER  21 

Earth  blew  a  far-horn  prelude  all  around, 

That  native  music  of  her  forest  home, 

While  from  the  sea's  blue  fields  and  syren  dales 

Shadows  and  light  noon  spectres  of  the  foam 

Riding  the  summer  gales 

On  aery  viols  plucked  an  idle  sound. 

Hearing  you  sing,  O  trees, 

Hearing  you  murmur,  "  There  are  older  seas, 

That  beat  on  vaster  sand, 

Where  the  wise  snailfish  move  their  pearly  towers 

To  carven  rocks  and  sculptured  promontories," 

Hearing  you  whisper,  "  Lands 

Where  blaze  the  unimaginable  flowers." 

Beneath  me  in  the  valley  waves  the  palm, 
Beneath,  beyond  the  valley,  breaks  the  sea; 
Beneath  me  sleep  in  mist  and  light  and  calm 
Cities  of  Lebanon,  dream-shadow-dim, 
Where  Kings  of  Tyre  and  Kings  of  Tyre  did  rule 
In  ancient  days  in  endless  dynasty, 
And  all  around  the  snowy  mountains  swim 
Like  mighty  swans  afloat  in  heaven's  pool. 

But  I  will  walk  upon  the  wooded  hill 

Where  stands  a  grove,  O  pines,  of  sister  pines. 

And  when  the  downy  twilight  droops  her  wing 

And  no  sea  glimmers  and  no  mountain  shines 

My  heart  shall  listen  still. 

For  pines  are  gossip  pines  the  wide  world  through 

And  full  of  Runic  tales  to  sigh  or  sing. 

'Tis  ever  sweet  through  pines  to  see  the  sky 


22  ENGLAND 

Blushing  a  deeper  gold  or  darker  blue. 
Tis  ever  sweet  to  lie 
On  the  dry  carpet  of  the  needles  brown, 
And  though  the  fanciful  green  lizard  stir 
And  windy  odours  light  as  thistledown 
Breathe  from  the  lavdanon  and  lavender, 
Half  to  forget  the  wandering  and  the  pain, 
Half  to  remember  days  that  have  gone  by, 
And  dream  and  dream  that  I  am  home  again ! 
•  JAMES  ELROY  FLECKER. 


THE  SOLDIER 

IF  I  should  die,  think  only  this  of  me: 

That  there's  some  corner  qf  a  foreign  field 
That  is  for  ever  England.   There  shall  be 

In  that  rich  earth  a  richer  dust  concealed; 
A  dust  whom  England  bore,  shaped,  made  aware, 

Gave,  once,  her  flowers  to  love,  her  ways  to  roam, 
A  body  of  England's,  breathing  English  air, 

Washed  by  the  rivers,  blest  by  suns  of  home. 

And  think,  this  heart,  all  evil  shed  away, 
A  pulse  in  the  eternal  mind,  no  less 

Gives  somewhere  back  the  thoughts  by  England 

given; 

Her  sights  and  sounds;   dreams  happy  as  her  day; 
And  laughter,  learnt  of  friends;  and  gentleness, 
In  hearts  at  peace,  under  an  English  heaven. 

RUPERT  BROOKE. 


PART   II 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA 


PART  II.— THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA 

THE  SEA  AND  THE  COUNTRY 

MODERN  poetry  on  the  subject  of  the  Sea  and  the 
Country  strikes  a  new  note,  and  that  note  is  '  Escape/ 
Not  altogether  new,  perhaps,  for  whenever  the  poet's 
world  becomes  conventionalised,  like  Vergil's  Rome, 
the  call  of  the  Land  or  the  Sea  becomes  insistent. 
But  it  is  new  to  this  extent:  that  never  in  the  world's 
history  has  the  average  man  got  further  away  from 
natural  conditions.  Life  passed  in  a  world  of  machines 
itself  becomes  mechanical.  Our  food,  our  clothes, 
our  comforts  and  necessities  are  produced  for  us  we 
know  not  how;  pavements  and  houses  cover  the 
open  fields ;  street-lamps  take  the  place  of  the  moon 
and  stars;  and  we  read  the  moods  of  the  elements 
by  tapping  a  barometer  in  the  hall. 

And  so  to  nearly  every  Englishman  there  comes  at 
times  the  strong  call  of  the  Sea  or  the  Country — the 
longing  to  escape  from  bricks  and  mortar  and  con- 
ventional ideas.  It  is  this  call — this  vague  and 
inarticulate  longing — that  the  poets  express  in  such 
poems  as  Sea- Fever  and  Wander-Thirst,  and  from  a 
different  point  of  view,  in  The  Winnowers  and  The 
Vagabond. 

25 


26  v  CALL   OF   THE  SEA 

The  poems  here  quoted  speak  for  themselves:  one 
cannot  miss,  for  instance,  the  sense  of  loneliness  and 
space  in  Messmates,  the  April  freshness  of  The  Adven- 
turers, or  the  delicate  imagery  and  haunting  suggestion 
of  The  Way  through  the  Woods.  The  stanzas  here 
called  N earing  Cape  Horn  are  taken  from  a  long  poem 
entitled  Dauber.  .These  few  stanzas  will  give  some 
idea  of  the  amazing  insight  and  conviction  with 
which  sea-sights  and  sounds  are  depicted  throughout 
the  work.  There  is  hardly  a  stanza  in  this  great 
narrative  poem  that  is  not  a  brilliant  sea-note — the 
reef-points  pattering  softly  overhead — 

Softly,  but  hurrying  too,  as  children  tread, 
A  hush,  a  long  swift  hurry  of  little  feet — 

the  swinging  masts — the  snow — the  great  storm.  It 
must  be  read  entire  to  be  appreciated,  for  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  there  is  a  more  magnificent  sea-picture 
in  the  language. 


SEA-FEVER 

I  MUST  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea 

and  the  sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song,  and  the 

white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face,  and  the  grey  dawn 

breaking. 


LAURENCE   BINYON  27 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the 

running  tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  tiie  white  clouds 

flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the 

sea-gull's  crying. 

I  must  go  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  vagrant 
gypsy  life, 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way,  where  the 
wind's  like  a  whetted  knife, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow- 
rover, 

And  a  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long 
trick's  over. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

JOHN  WINTER 

WHAT  ails  John  Winter,  that  so  oft 

Silent  he  sits  apart  ? 
The  neighbours  cast  their  looks  on  him; 

But  deep  he  hides  his  heart. 

In  Deptford  streets  the  houses  small 

Huddle  forlorn  together. 
Whether  the  wind  blow  or  be  still, 

'Tis  soiled  and  sorry  weather. 


28  CALL   OF   THE  SEA 

But  over  these  dim  roofs  arise 

Tall  masts  of  ocean  ships. 
Whenever  John  Winter  looked  at  them 

The  salt  blew  on  his  lips.. 

He  cannot  pace  the  street  about, 
But  they  stand  before  his  eyes! 

The  more  he  shuns  them,  the  more  proud 
And  beautiful  they  rise. 

He  turns  his  head,  but  in  his  ear 

The  steady  Trade- Winds  run, 
And  in  his  eye  the  endless  waves 

Ride  on  into  the  sun. 

His  little  child  at  evening  said, 

"  Now  tell  us,  dad,  a  tale 
Of  naked  men  that  shoot  with  bows, 

Tell  of  the  spouting  whale!  " 

He  told  old  tales,  his  eyes  were  bright, 

His  wife  looked  up  to  see, 
And  smiled  on  him :  but  in  the  midst 

He  ended  suddenly. 

He  bade  his  boys  good-night,  and  kissed 

And  held  them  to  his  breast. 
They  wondered  and  were  still,  to  feel 

Their  lips  so  fondly  pressed. 

He  sat  absorbed  in  silent  gloom. 
His  wife  lifted  her  head 


LAURENCE   BINYON  29 

From  sewing,  and  stole  up  to  him, 
"  What  ails  you,  John?  "  she  said. 

He  spoke  no  word.   A  silent  tear 

Fell  softly  down  her  cheek. 
She  knelt  beside  him,  and  his  hand 

Was  on  her  forehead  meek. 

But  even  as  his  tender  touch 

Her  dumb  distress  consoled, 
The  mighty  waves  danced  in  his  eyes 

And  through  the  silence  rolled. 

There  fell  a  soft  November  night, 
Restless  with  gusts  that  shook 

The  chimneys,  and  beat  wildly  down 
The  flames  in  the  chimney  nook. 

John  Winter  lay  beside  his  wife, 

'Twas  past  the  mid  of  night. 
Softly  he  rose,  and  in  dead  hush 

Stood  stealthily  upright. 

Softly  he  came  where  slept  his  boys, 

And  kissed  them  in  their  bed ; 
One  stretched  his  arms  out  in  his  sleep: 

At  that  he  turned  his  head. 

And  now  he  bent  above  his  wife, 

She  slept  a  peace  serene, 
Her  patient  soul  was  in  the  peace 

Of  breathing  slumber  seen. 


30  CALL   OF   THE  SEA 

At  last,  he  kissed  one  aching  kiss, 

Then  shrank  again  in  dread, 
And  from  his  own  home  guiltily 

And  like  a  thief  he  fled. 

But  now  with  darkness  and  the  wind 
He  breathes  a  breath  more  free, 

And  walks  with  calmer  steps,  like  one 
Who  goes  with  destiny. 

And  see,  before  him  the  great  masts 

Tower  with  all  their  spars 
Black  on  the  dimness,  soaring  bold 

Among  the  mazy  stars. 

In  stormy  rushings  through  the  air 
Wild  scents  the  darkness  filled, 

And  with  a  fierce  forgetfulness 
His  drinking  nostril  thrilled. 

He  hasted  with  quick  feet,  he  hugged 

The  wildness  to  his  breast, 
As  one  who  goes  the  only  way 

To  set  his  heart  at  rest. 

When  morning  glimmered,  a  great  ship 

Dropt  gliding  down  the  shore. 
John  Winter  coiled  the  anchor  ropes    * 

Among  his  mates  once  more. 

LAURENCE  BINYON. 


R.  L.  STEVENSON  31 


CHRISTMAS  AT  SEA 

THE  sheets  were  frozen  hard,  and  they  cut  the  naked 

hand; 
The  decks  were  like  a  slide,  where  the  seaman  scarce 

could  stand, 
The  wind  was  a  nor'  wester,  blowing  squally  off  the 

sea; 
And  cliffs  and  spouting  breakers  were  the  only  things 

a-lee. 

They  heard  the  surf  a-roaring  before  the  break  of 

day; 
But  'twas  only  with  the  peep  of  light  we  saw  how  ill 

we  lay. 
We  tumbled  every  hand  on  deck  instanter,  with  a 

shout, 
And  we  gave  her  the  maintops'l,  and  stood  by  to  go 

about. 

All  day  we  tack'd  and  tack'd  between  the  South  Head 

and  the  North; 
All  day  we  haul'd  the  frozen  sheets,  and  got  no 

further  forth; 

All  day*  as  cold  as  charity,  in  bitter  pain  and  dread, 
For  very  life  and  nature  we  tack'd  from  head  to 

head. 


32  CALL   OF  THE  SEA 

We  gave  the  South  a  wider  berth,  for  there  the  tide- 
race  roared; 

But  every  tack  we  made  we  brought  the  North  Head 
close  aboard; 

So's  we  saw  the  cliffs  and  houses,  and  the  breakers 
running  high, 

And  the  coastguard  in  his  garden,  with  his  glass 
against  his  eye. 

The  frost  was  on  the  village  roofs  as  white  as  ocean 

foam; 
The  good  red  fires  were  burning  bright  in  every 

'longshore  home; 
The    windows    sparkled    clear,    and    the    chimneys 

volley'd  out ; 
And  I  vow  we  sniffed  the  victuals  as  the  vessel  went 

about. 

The  bells  upon  the  church  were  rung  with  a  mighty 

jovial  cheer; 
For  it's  just  that  I  should  tell  you  how  (of  all  days 

in  the  year) 

The  day  of  our  adversity  was  blessed  Christmas  morn, 
And  the  house  above  the  coastguard's  was  the  house 

where  I  was  born. 

O  well  I  saw  the  pleasant  room,  the  pleasant  faces 

there, 
My  mother's  silver  spectacles,  my  father's  silver  hair; 


R.  L.  STEVENSON  33 

And  well  I  saw  the  firelight,  like  a  flight  of  homely 

elves 
Go  dancing  round  the  china  plates  that  stand  upon 

the  shelves ! 


And  well  I  knew  the  talk  they  had,  the  talk  that  was 

of  me, 
Of  the  shadow  on  the  household  and  the  son  that 

went  to  sea; 

And  O  the  wicked  fool  I  seem'd,  in  every  kind  of  way, 
To  be  here  and   hauling  frozen  ropes  on  bless&d 

Christmas  Day. 

They  lit  the  high  sea-light,  and  the  dark  began  to  fall. 

*  All  hands  to  loose  topgallant  sails ! '  I  heard  the 

captain  call. 

*  By  the  Lord,  she'll  never  stand  it/  our  first  mate 

Jackson  cried. 

.  .  .  '  It's  the  one  way  or  the  other,  Mr.  Jackson/ 
he  replied. 

She  staggered  to  her  bearings,  but  the  sails  were  new 

and  good, 
And  the  ship  smelt  up  to  windward  just  as  though 

she  understood. 
As  the  winter's  day  was  ending,  in  the  entry  of  the 

night, 
We  clear'd  the  weary  headland,  and  passed  below  the 

fight. 

c 


34  CALL   OF  THE  SEA 

And  they  heaved  a  mighty  breath,  every  soul  on 

board  but  me, 
As  they  saw  her  nose  again  pointing  handsome  out 

to  sea; 
But  all  that  I  could  think  of,  in  the  darkness  and  the 

cold, 
Was  just  that  I  was  leaving  home  and  my  folks  were 

growing  old. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


FROM  -ECHOES" 

THE  full  sea  rolls  and  thunders 

In  glory  and  in  glee. 
O,  bury  me  not  in  the  senseless  earth 

But  in  the  living  sea ! 

Ay,  bury  me  where  it  surges 
A  thousand  miles  from  shore, 

And  in  its  brotherly  unrest 
I'll  range  for  evermore. 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 


SHIPS   OF  OLD   RENOWN 

TRIREMES  of  the  Roman,  cruising  down  to  Antioch, 
Longships  of  the  Northmen,  galleons  of  Spain, 

Tall,  gleaming  caravels,  swinging  in  the  tideway, 
Never  shall  the  sunlight  gild  their  sails  again. 


NORA' HOLLAND  35 

Never  shall  those  white  sails,  lining  on  the  sea-line, 
Swoop  like  a  swallow  across  the  blinding  blue, 

Caracque  and  caravel,  lying  'neath  the  waters, 
Wait  till  the  bugles  shall  call  the  last  review. 

There  in  the  darkness  lie  friend  and  foe  together, 
Drake's  English  pinnaces,  the  great  Armada's  host ; 

Quiet  they  lie  in  the  silence  of  the  sea-depths, 
Waiting  the  call  that  shall  sound  from  coast  to 
coast. 

Warship  and  merchantmen,  lying  in  the  slime  there, 
Galleys  of  the  Algerine,  and  traders  of  Almayne, 

Hoys  of  the  Dutchman,  and  haughty  ships  of  Venice, 
Never  shall  the  sunlight  gild  their  sails  again. 

NORA  HOLLAND. 

SEA-GULLS 

WHERE  the  dark  green  hollows  lift 

Into  crests  of  snow, 
Wheeling,  flashing,  floating  by, 
White  against  the  stormy  sky, 
With  exultant  call  and  cry 

Swift  the  sea-gulls  go. 

Fearless,  vagabond  and  free 

Children  of  the  spray, 
Spirits  of  old  mariners 
Drifting  down  the  restless  years — 


36  CALL   OF  THE  SEA 

Drake's  ana  Hawkins'  buccaneers, 
So  do  seamen  say. 

Watching,  guarding,  sailing  still 
Round  the  shores  they  knew, 

Where  the  cliffs  of  Devon  rise 

Red  against  the  sullen  skies 

(Dearer  far  than  Paradise), 
'Mid  the  tossing  blue. 

Not  for  them  the  heavenly  song; 

Sweeter  still  they  find 
Than  those  angels,  row  on  row, 
Thunder  of  the  bursting  snow 
Seething  on  the  rocks  below, 

Singing  of  the  wind. 

Fairer  than  the  streets  of  gold 

Those  wild  fields  of  foam, 
Where  the  horses  of  the  sea 
Stamp  and  whinny  ceaselessly, 
Warding  from  all  enemy 

Shores  they  once  called  home. 

So  the  sea-gulls  call  and  cry 

'Neath  the  cliffs  to-day, 
Spirits  of  old  mariners 
Drifting  down  the  restless  years — 
Drake's  and  Hawkins'  buccaneers — 

So  do  seamen  say. 

NORA  HOLLAND. 


HENRY   NEWBOLT  37 


MESSMATES 

HE  gave  us  all  a  goodbye  cheerily 

At  the  first  dawn  of  day; 
We  dropped  him  down  the  side  full  drearily 

When  the  light  died  away. 

It's  a  dead  dark  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  a  long,  long  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
Where  the  Trades  and  the  tides  roll  over  him 

And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

He's  there  alone  with  green  seas  rocking  him 

For  a  thousand  miles  around; 
He's  there  alone  with  dumb  things  mocking  him, 

And  we're  homeward  bound. 
It's  a  long,  lone  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  a  dead  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
While  the  months  and  the  years  roll  over  him 

And  the  great  ships  go  by. 

I  wonder  if  the  tramps  come  near  enough 

As  they  thrash  to  and  fro, 
And  the  battle-ships'  bells  ring  clear  enough 

To  be  heard  down  below; 

If  through  all  the  lone  watch  that  he's  a-keeping  there, 
And  the  long,  cold  night  that  lags  a-creeping  there, 
The  voices  of  the  sailor-men  shall  comfort  him 

When  the  great  ships  go  by. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


38  CALL   OF  THE  SEA 

NEARING  CAPE  HORN 
(From  Dauber) 

ALL  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper  rolled 

In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 

Which  rolled  her  down  until  the  time-bells  tolled 

Clang,  and  the  weltering  water  moaned  like  beeves", 

The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  shook  the  sheaves, 

Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports  gush, 

The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  saying  "  Hush ! " 

It  was  all  black  and  starless.    Peering  down 
Into  the  water  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom, 
One  saw  a  dim,  smooth,  oily  glitter  of  brown 
Heaving  and  dying  away  and  leaving  room 
For  yet  another.  'Like  the  march  of  doom 
Came  those  great  powers  of  marching  silences ; 
Then  fog  came  down,  dead  cold,  and  hid  the  seas. 

They  set  the  Dauber  to  the  fog-horn.  There 
He  stood  upon  the  poop,  making  to  sound 
Out  of  the  pump  the  sailors'  nasal  blare, 
Listening  lest  ice  should  make  the  note  resound. 
She  bayed  there  like  a  solitary  hound 
Lost  in  a  covert,  all  the  watch  she  bayed; 
The  fog,  come  closelier  down,  no  answer  made. 


JOHN   MASEFIELD  39 

Denser  it  grew,  until  the  ship  was  lost; 

The  elemental  hid  her,  she  was  merged 

In  mufflings  of  dark  death  like  a  man's  ghost 

New  to  the  change  of  death,  yet  thither  urged. 

Then  from  the  hidden  waters  something  surged 

Mournful,  despairing,  great,  greater  than  speech, 

A  noise  like  one  slow  wave  on  a  still  beach. 

Mournful,  and  then  again,  mournful,  and  still 

Out  of  the  night  that  mighty  voice  arose, 

The  Dauber  at  his  fog-horn  felt  the  thrill: 

Who  rode  that  desolate  sea?  What  forms  were  those? 

Mournful,  from  things  defeated,  in  the  throes 

Of  memory  of  some  conquered  hunting  ground, 

Out  of  the  night  of  death  arose  the  sound. 

"  Whales,"  said  the  mate.     They  stayed  there  all 

night  long, 

Answering  the  horn,  out  of  the  night  they  spoke, 
Defeated  creatures  who  had  suffered  wrong 
But  were  still  noble  underneath  the  stroke. 
They  filled  the  darkness  when  the  Dauber  woke; 
The  men  came  peering  to  the  rail  to  hear, 
And  the  sea  sighed  and  the  fog  rose  up  sheer, 

A  wall  of  nothing  at  the  world's  last  edge, 

Where  no  life  came  except  defeated  life. 

The  Dauber  felt  shut  in  within  a  hedge 

Behind  which  form  was  hidden  and  thought  was  rife, 

And  that  a  blinding  flash,  a  thrust,  a  knife, 


40  CALL   OF  THE  SEA 

Would  sweep  the  hedge  away  and  make  all  plain, 
Brilliant  beyond  all  words,  blinding  the  brain. 

So  the  night  passed,  but  then  no  morning  broke, 
Only  a  something  shewed  that  night  was  dead, 
A  sea-bird,  cackling  like  a  devil,  spoke, 
And  the  fog  drew  away  and  hung  like  lead : 
Like  mighty  cliffs  it  shaped,  sullen  and  red, 
Like  glowering  gods  at  watch  it  did  appear, 
And  sometimes  drew  away  and  then  drew  near. 

Like  islands  and  like  chasms  and  like  hell, 
But  always  mighty  and  red,  gloomy  and  ruddy, 
Shutting  the  visible  sea  in  like  a  well, 
Slow-heaving  in  vast  ripples  blank  and  muddy 
Where  the  sun  should  have  risen  it  streaked  bloody; 
The  day  was  still-born ;  all  the  sea-fowl  scattering 
Splashed  the  still  water,  mewing,  hovering,  chattering. 

Then  Polar  snow  came  down  little  and  light, 
Till  all  the  sky  was  hidden  by  the  small, 
Most  multitudinous  drift  of  dirty  white 
Tumbling  and  wavering  down  and  covering  all, 
Covering  the  sea,  the  sky,  the  clipper  tall, 
Furring  the  ropes  with  white,  casing  the  mast, 
Coming  on  no  known  air,  but  blowing  past. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


PART   III 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


PART  III.— THE  CALL  OF  THE 
COUNTRY 

WANDER-THIRST 


BEYOND  the  East  the  Sunrise;  beyond  the  West  the 

sea; 
And  East  and  West  the  Wander-Thirst  that  will  not 

let  me  be; 

It  works  in  me  like  madness  to  bid  me  say  goodbye, 
For  the  seas  call,  and  the  stars  call,  and  oh!  the  call 

of  the  sky ! 

I  know  not  where  the  white  road  runs,  nor  what  the 

blue  hills  are, 
'    But  a  man  can  have  the  sun  for  friend,  and  for  his 

guide  a  star; 
And  there's  no  end  of  voyaging  when  once  the  voice 

is  heard, 
For  the  rivers  call,  and  the  road  calls,  and  oh !  the 

call  of  a  bird ! 

Yonder  the  long  horizon  lies,  and  there  by  night  and 

day 
The  old  ships  draw  to  home  again,  the  young  ships 

sail  away; 

43 


44  THE  COUNTRY 

And  come  I  may,  but  go  I  must,  and  if  men  ask  you 

why, 
You  may  put  the  blame  on  the  stars  and  the  sun,  and 

the  white  road  and  the  sky. 

GERALD  GOULD. 


THE  WINNOWERS 

BETWIXT  two  billows  of  the  downs 

The  little  hamlet  lies, 
And  nothing  sees  but  the  bald  crowns 

Of  the  hills,  and  the  blue  skies. 

Clustering  beneath  the  long  descent 
And  grey  slopes  of  the  wold, 

The  red  roofs  nestle,  oversprent 
With  lichen  yellow  as  gold. 

We  found  it  in  the  mid-day  sun 
Basking,  what  time  of  year 

The  thrush  his  singing  has  begun, 
Ere  the  first  leaves  appear. 

High  from  his  load  a  woodman  pitched 

His  faggots  on  the  stack: 
Knee-deep  in  straw  the  cattle  twitched 

Sweet  hay  from  crib  and  rack : 

And  from  the  barn  hard  by  was  borne 

A  steady  muffled  din, 
By  which  we  knew  that  threshed  com 

Was  winnowing,  and  went  in. 


ROBERT   BRIDGES  45 

The  sunbeams  on  the  motey  air 
Streamed  through  the  open  door, 

And  on  the  brown  arms  moving  bare, 
And  the  grain  upon  the  floor. 

One  turns  the  crank,  one  stoops  to  feed 

The  hopper,  lest  it  lack, 
One  in  the  bushel  scoops  the  seed, 

One  stands  to  hold  the  sack. 

We  watched  the  good  grain  rattle  down, 
And  the  awns  fly  in  the  draught; 

To  see  us  both  so  pensive  grown 
The  honest  labourers  laughed: 

Merry  they  were,  because  the  wheat 
Was  clean  and  plump  and  good, 

Pleasant  to  hand  and  eye,  and  meet 
For  market  and  for  food. 

It  chanced  we  from  the  city  were, 

And  had  not  gat  us  free 
In  spirit  from  the  store  and  stir 

Of  its  immensity: 

But  here  we  found  ourselves  again. 

Where  humble  harvests  bring 
After  much  toil  but  little  grain, 

Tis  merry  winnowing. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


46  THE  COUNTRY 


THE  VAGABOND 

GIVE  to  me  the  life  I  love, 

Let  the  lave  go  by  me, 
Give  the  jolly  heaven  above 

And  the  byway  nigh  me. 
Bed  in  the  bush  with  stars  to  see, 

Bread  I  dip  in  the  river — 
There's  the  life  for  a  man  like  me, 

There's  the  life  for  ever. 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  seek  not,  hope  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 
All  I  seek,  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 

Or  let  autumn  fall  on  me 

Where  afield  I  linger, 
Silencing  the  bird  on  tree, 

Biting  the  blue  finger. 
White  as  meal  the  frosty  field — 

Warm  the  fireside  haven — 
Not  to  autumn  will  I  yield, 

Not  to  winter  even ! 


RUDYARD    KIPLING  47 

Let  the  blow  fall  soon  or  late, 

Let  what  will  be  o'er  me; 
Give  the  face  of  earth  around, 

And  the  road  before  me. 
Wealth  I  ask  not,  hope  nor  love, 

Nor  a  friend  to  know  me; 
All  I  ask,  the  heaven  above 

And  the  road  below  me. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


THE  WAY  THROUGH  THE  WOODS 

THEY  shut  the  road  through  the  woods 

Seventy  years  ago. 

Weather  and  rain  have  undone  it  again, 

And  now  you  would  never  know 

There  was  once  a  road  through  the  woods 

Before  they  planted  the  trees. 

It  is  underneath  the  coppice  and  heath, 

And  the  thin  anemones. 

Only  the  keeper  sees 

That,  where  the  ring-dove  broods, 

And  the  badgers  roll  at  ease, 

There  was  once  a  way  through  the  woods. 

Yet,  if  you  enter  the  woods 

Of  a  summer  evening  late, 

When  the  night  air  cools  on  the  trout-ringed  pools 

Where  the  otter  whistles  his  mate, 


48  THE  COUNTRY 

(They  fear  not  men  in  the  woods, 

Because  they  see  so  few) 

You  will  hear  the  beat  of  a  horse's  feet, 

And  the  swish  of  a  skirt  in  the  dew, 

Steadily  cantering  through 

The  misty  solitudes, 

As  though  they  perfectly  knew 

The  old  lost  road  through  the  woods  .  .  . 

But  there  is  no  road  through  the  woods ! 

RUDYARD  KIPLING. 

THE  ADVENTURERS 

OVER  the  downs  in  sunlight  clear 
Forth  we  went  in  the  spring  of  the  year: 
Plunder  of  April's  gold  we  sought, 
Little  of  April's  anger  thought. 

Caught  in  a  copse  without  defence 
Low  we  crouched  to  the  rain-squall  dense: 
Sure,  if  misery  man  can  vex, 
There  it  beat  on  our  bended  necks. 

Yet  when  again  we  wander  on 
Suddenly  all  that  gloom  is  gone: 
Under  and  over  through  the  wood, 
Life  is  astir,  and  life  is  good. 

Violets  purple,  violets  white, 
Delicate  windflowers  dancing  light, 


W.  B.  YEATS  49 

Primrose,  mercury,  moscatel, 
Shimmer  in  diamonds  round  the  dell. 

Squirrel  is  climbing  swift  and  lithe, 
Chiff-chaff  whetting  his  airy  scythe, 
Woodpecker  whirrs  his  rattling  rap, 
Ringdove  flies  with  a  sudden  clap. 

Rook  is  summoning  rook  to  build, 
Dunnock  his  beak  with  moss  has  filled, 
Robin  is  bowing  in  coat-tails  brown, 
Tomtit  chattering  upside  down. 

Well  is  it  seen  that  every  one 
Laughs  at  the  rain  and  loves  the  sun; 
We  too  laughed  with  the  wildwood  crew, 
Laughed  till  the  sky  once  more  was  blue. 

Homeward  over  the  downs  we  went 
Soaked  to  the  heart  with  sweet  content; 
April's  anger  is  swift  to  fall, 
April's  wonder  is  worth  it  all. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

I  WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 

And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles  made ; 

Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for*  the 

honey-bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 


50  THE  COUNTRY 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where  the 

cricket  sings ; 
There  midnight's  all  a  glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the 

shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 

gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS. 


IN   ROMNEY   MARSH 

As  I  went  down  to  Dymchurch  Wall, 
I  heard  the  South  sing  o'er  the  land; 

I  saw  the  yellow  sunlight  fall 

On  knolls  where  Norman  churches  stand. 

And  ringing  shrilly,  taut  and  lithe, 
Within  the  wind  a  core  of  sound, 

The  wire  from  Romney  town  to  Hythe 
Alone  its  airy  journey  wound. 


JOHN   DAVIDSON  51 

A  veil  of  purple  vapour  flowed 

And  trailed  its  fringe  along  the  Straits ; 

The  upper  air  like  sapphire  glow'd; 
And  roses  fill'd  Heaven's  central  gates. 

Masts  in  the  offing  wagg'd  their  tops; 

The  swinging  waves  peaTd  on  the  shore; 
The  saffron  beach,  all  diamond  drops 

And  beads  of  surge,  prolonged  the  roar. 

As  I  came  up  from  Dymchurch  Wall, 
I  saw  above  the  Down's  low  crest 

The  crimson  brands  of  sunset  fall, 
Flicker  and  fade  from  out  the  west. 

Night  sank:  like  flakes  of  silver  fire 

The  stars  in  one  great  shower  came  down ; 

Shrill  blew  the  wind;  and  shrill  the  wire 
Rang  out  from  Hythe  to  Romney  town. 

The  darkly  shining  salt  sea  drops 

Streamed  as  the  waves  clashed  on  the  shore; 
The  beach,  with  all  its  organ  stops 

Pealing  again,  prolonged  the  roar. 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 


52  THE    COUNTRY 

THE  JOYS  OF  THE  ROAD 

Now  the  joys  of  the  road  are  chiefly  these: 
A  crimson  touch  on  the  hard- wood  trees; 

A  vagrant's  morning  wide  and  blue, 
In  early  fall,  when  the  wind  walks,  too ; 

A  shadowy  highway,  cool  and  brown, 
Alluring  up  and  enticing  down. 

From  rippled  water  to  dappled  swamp, 
From  purple  glory  to  scarlet  pomp ; 

The  outward  eye,  the  quiet  will, 

And  the  striding  heart  from  hill  to  hill ; 

The  tempter  apple  over  the  fence ; 

The  cobweb  bloom  on  the  yellow  quince; 

The  palish  asters  along  the  wood, — 
A  lyric  touch  of  the  solitude ; 

An  open  hand,  an  easy  shoe, 

And  a  hope  to  make  the  day  go  through, — 

Another  to  sleep  with,  and  a  third 
To  wake  me  up  at  the  voice  of  a  bird; 

A  scrap  of  gossip  at  the  ferry; 

A  comrade  neither  glum  nor  merry, 


BLISS    CARMAN  53 

Who  never  defers  and  never  demands, 

But,  smiling,  takes  the  world  in  his  hands, — 

Seeing  it  good  as  when  God  first  saw 
And  gave  it  the  weight  of  his  will  for  law. 

And  O  the  joy  that  is  never  won, 

But  follows  and  follows  the  journeying  sun, 

By  marsh  and  tide,  by  meadow  and  stream, 
A  will-o'-the-wind,  a  light-o'-dream, 

The  racy  smell  of  the  forest  loam 

When  the  stealthy,  sad-heart  leaves  go  home; 

The  broad  gold  wake  of  the  afternoon ; 
The  silent  fleck  of  the  cold  new  moon ; 

The  sound  of  the  hollow  sea's  release 
From  the  stormy  tumult  to  starry  peace; 

With  only  another  league  to  wend ; 

And  two  brown  arms  at  the  journey's  end! 

These  are  the  joys  of  the  open  road — 
For  him  who  travels  without  a  load. 

BLISS  CARMAN. 


PART    IV 

ANIMALS 


PART  IV.— ANIMALS 

ALL  through  the  great  literature  of  Europe,  from  the 
time  when  Homer  sang  of  the  faithfulness  of  Odys- 
seus' dog  Argus,  and  Hesiod  of  the  happiness  of  the 
little  cicada,  one  may  find  poems  inspired  by  thoughts 
of  living  creatures.  English  literature  abounds  in 
such  poems.  Shakespeare,  Shelley,  Keats,  Blake, 
Scott,  Coleridge — to  mention  a  few  great  names — all 
wrote  some  of  their  most  beautiful  work  under  the 
inspiration  of  this  theme. 

It  is  the  same  with  modern  poetry:  hardly  a 
living  creature  but  has  inspired  some  thought  that 
has  been  expressed  in  beautiful  verse.  Yet  in  reading 
the  many  modern  poems  that  have  been  written  upon 
this  subject  one  meets,  as  it  were,  a  change  of  atti- 
tude— a  definite  striving  to  break  through  the  great 
barrier  of  species,  and  enter  in  spirit  into  the  strange 
world  of  dumb  animals  that  lies  so  close  to  us,  and 
is  yet  so  infinitely  far  away. 

This  change  of  attitude  may  perhaps  be  expressed 
in  the  order  in  which  the  following  poems  have  been 
arranged.  First  there  is  the  point  of  view  of  the 
hunter,  in  which  the  tragedy  of  the  hunted  finds  no 

57 


58  ANIMALS 

place — the  joy  of  the  sport-instinct  excluding  all 
such  thought.  Next,  in  the  wonderful  poem  A  Run- 
noble  Stag,  the  outlook  is  modified.  For-  through 
all  its  freshness  and  enthusiasm,  the  very  music  of 
the  Hunt,  the  amazingly  subtle  effect  of  the  con- 
stant repetition  of  "  the  stag,  the  stag,"  one  feels 
that  the  whole  inspiration  of  the  poem  lies  in  the 
dignity  and  splendour  of  the  stag  himself,  uncon- 
quered  even  in  death. 

Next,  the  poet  is  an  observer  of  nature — a  lover  of 
animals.  And  this  love  of  animals  prompts  strange 
and  beautiful  questionings,  as  in  the  verses  To  a 
Favourite  Cat. 

Then  the  thought  goes  deeper,  and  one  is  made 
to  realise  the  tragedy  of  animal  life,  that  fails  to 
understand,  and  yet  can  feel.  Such  a  poem  is  The 
Bull,  which  with  all  its  pathos  and  gorgeous  imagery 
is  far  more  than  the  mere  story  of  a  bull.  There  is  an 
indignant  appeal  for  understanding  in  such  poems  as 
The  Bells  of  Heaven — of  sympathy  for  "  tamed  and 
shabby  tigers  "  and  "  little  hunted  hares  ";  there  is 
a  cry  of  pity  in  The  Snare',  and  in  Rupert  Brooke's 
wonderful  poem  The  Fish,  an  attempt  to  visualise 
for  us  the  outlook  of  a  living  creature  infinitely 
removed  from  us  in  thought  and  conditions. 

In  a  single  phrase,  sympathetic  insight  is  the  key- 
note of  modern  poetry  written  upon  the  theme  of 
Animals. 


W.  S.   BLUNT  59 


THE  OLD  SQUIRE 

I  LIKE  the  hunting  of  the  hare 

Better  than  that  of  the  fox; 
I  like  the  joyous  morning  air, 

And  the  crowing  of  the  cocks. 

I  like  the  calm  of  the  early  fields, 

The  ducks  asleep  by  the  lake, 
The  quiet  hour  which  Nature  yields, 

Before  mankind  is  awake. 

I  like  the  pheasants  and  feeding  things 

Of  the  unsuspicious  morn ; 
I  like  the  flap  of  the  wood-pigeon's  wings 

As  she  rises  from  the  corn. 

I  like  the  blackbird's  shriek,  and  his  rush 

From  the  turnips  as  I  pass  by, 
And  the  partridge  hiding  her  head  in  a  bush, 

For  her  young  ones  cannot  fly. 

I  like  these  things,  and  I  like  to  ride 

When  all  the  world  is  in  bed, 
To  the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  sky  grows  wide, 

And  where  the  sun  grows  red. 

The  beagles  at  my  horse  heels  trot 

In  silence  after  me; 
There's  Ruby,  Roger,  Diamond,  Dot, 

Old  Slut  and  Margery, — 


60  ANIMALS 

A  score  of  names  well  used,  and  dear, 
The  names  my  childhood  knew; 

The  horn,  with  which  I  rouse  their  cheer, 
Is  the  horn  my  father  blew. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare 

Better  than  that  of  the  fox; 
The  new  world  still  is  all  less  fair 

Than  the  old  world  it  mocks. 

I  covet  not  a  wider  range 

Than  these  dear  manors  give; 
I  take  my  pleasure  without  change, 

And  as  I  lived  I  live. 


I  leave  my  neighbours  to  their  thought; 

My  choice  it  is,  and  pride, 
On  my  own  lands  to  find  my  sport, 

In  my  own  fields  to  ride. 

The  hare  herself  no  better  loves 
The  field  where  she  was  bred, 

Than  I  the  habit  of  these  groves, 
My  own  inherited. 

I  know  my  quarries  every  one, 
The  meuse  where  she  sits  low; 

The  road  she  chose  to-day  was  run 
A  hundred  years  ago. 


S.   BLUNT  61 

The  lags,  the  gills,  the  forest  ways, 

The  hedgerows  one  and  all, 
These  are  the  kingdoms  of  my  chase, 

And  bounded  by  my  wall; 

Nor  has  the  world  a  better  thing, 
Though  one  should  search  it  round, 

Than  thus  to  live  one's  own  sole  king, 
Upon  one's  own  sole  ground. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare; 

It  brings  me,  day  by  day, 
The  memory  of  old  days  as  fair, 

With  dead  men  past  away. 

To  these,  as  homeward  still  I  ply, 

And  pass  the  churchyard  gate 
Where  all  are  laid  as  I  must  lie, 

I  stop  and  raise  my  hat. 

I  like  the  hunting  of  the  hare; 

New  sports  I  hold  in  scorn. 
I  like  to  be  as  my  fathers  were, 

In  the  days  ere  I  was  born. 

WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT. 


62  ANIMALS 


MASTER  AND   MAN 

Do  ye  ken  hoo  to  fush  for  the  salmon? 

If  yell  listen  I'll  tell  ye. 
Dinna  trust  to  the  books  and  their  gammon, 

They're  but  trying  to  sell  ye. 
Leave  professors  to  read  their  ain  cackle 

And  fush  their  ain  style; 
Come  awa',  sir,  we'll  oot  wi'  oor  tackle 

And  be  busy  the  while. 

'Tis  a  wee  bit  ower  bright,  ye  were  thinkin'  ? 

Aw,  ye'll  no  be  the  loser; 
Tis  better  ten  baskin'  and  blinkin' 

Than  ane  that's  a  cruiser. 
If  ye're  bent,  as  I  tak  it,  on  slatter, 

Ye  should  pray  for  the  droot, 
For  the  salmon's  her  ain  when  there's  watter, 

But  she's  oors  when  it's  oot. 

Ye  may  just  put  your  flee- hook  behind  ye, 

Ane  hook  wull  be  plenty; 
If  they'll  no  come  for  this,  my  man,  mind  ye, 

They'll  no  come  for  twenty. 
Ay,  a  rod;   but  the  shorter  the  stranger 

And  the  nearer  to  strike; 
For  myself  I  prefare  it  nae  langer 

Than  a  yard  or  the  like. 


JOHN   DAVIDSON  63 

Noo,  ye'll  stand  awa'  back  while  I'm  creepin' 

WT  my  snoot  i'  the  gowans; 
There's  a  bonny  twalve-poonder  a-sleepin' 

T  the  shade  o'  yon  rowans. 
Man,  man!  I  was  fearin'  I'd  stirred  her, 

But  I've  got  her  the  noo! 
Hoot !  fushin's  as  easy  as  murrder 

When  ye  ken  what  to  do. 

Na,  na,  sir,  I  doot  na  ye're  willin' 

But  I  canna  permit  ye; 
For  I'm  thinkin'  that  yon  kind  o'  kiJlin' 

Wad  hardly  befit  ye. 
And  some  work  is  deefficult  hushin', 

There'd  be  havers  and  chaff: 
'Twull  be  best,  sir,  for  you  to  be  fushin' 

And  me  wi'  the  gaff. 

HENRY  NEWBOLT. 


A   RUNNABLE  STAG 

WHEN  the  pods  went  pop  on  the  broom,  green  broom, 

And  apples  began  to  be  golden-skinn'd, 
We  harbour 'd  a  stag  in  the  Priory  coomb, 
And  we  feather'd  his  trail  up-wind,  up-wind, 
We  feather'd  his  trail  up-wind — 
A  stag  of  warrant,  a  stag,  a  stag, 
A  runnable  stag,  a  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 


64  ANIMALS 

Then  the  huntsman's  horn  rang  yap,  yap,  yap, 

And  '  Forwards  '  we  heard  the  harbourer  shout ; 
But  'twas  only  a  brocket  that  broke  a  gap 
In  the  beechen  underwood,  driven  out, 
From  the  underwood  antler'd  out 

By  warrant  and  might  of  the  stag,  the  stag, 
The  runnable  stag,  whose  lordly  mind 
Was  bent  on  sleep,  though  beam'd  and  tined 
He  stood,  a  runnable  stag. 


So  we  tufted  the  covert  till  afternoon 

With  Tinkerman's  Pup  and  Bell-of-the-North ; 
And  hunters  were  sulky  and  hounds  out  of  tune 
Before  we  tufted  the  right  stag  forth, 
Before  we  tufted  him  forth, 

The  stag  of  warrant,  the  wily  stag, 
The  runnable  stag  with  his  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
The  royal  and  runnable  stag. 

It  was  Bell-of-the-North  and  Tinkerman's  Pup 

That  stuck  to  the  scent  till  the  copse  was  drawn. 
*  Tally  ho !  Tally  ho ! '  and  the  hunt  was  up, 
The  tufters  whipp'd,  and  the  pack  laid  on, 
The  resolute  pack  laid  on, 

And  the  stag  of  warrant  away  at  last, 
The  runnable  stag,  the  same,  the  same, 
His  hoofs  on  fire,  his  horns  like  flame, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 


JOHN   DAVIDSON  65 

'  Let  your  gelding  be :  if  you  check  or  chide 

He  stumbles  at  once  and  you're  out  of  the  hunt ; 
For  three  hundred  gentlemen,  able  to  ride, 
On  hunters  accustom'd  to  bear  the  brunt, 
Accustom'd  to  bear  the  brunt, 

Are  after  the  runnable  stag,  the  stag, 
The  runnable  stag  with  his  kingly  crop, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  on  top, 
The  right,  the  runnable  stag/ 


By  perilous  paths  in  coomb  and  dell, 

The  heather,  the  rocks,  and  the  river-bed, 
The  pace  grew  hot,  for  the  scent  lay  well, 
And  a  runnable  stag  goes  right  ahead, 
The  quarry  went  right  ahead — 
Ahead,  ahead,  and  fast  and  far; 
His  antler'd  crest,  his  cloven  hoof, 
Brow,  bay  and  tray  and  three  aloof, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 

For  a  matter  of  twenty  miles  and  more 

By  the  densest  hedge  and  the  highest  wall, 
Through  herds  of  bullocks  he  baffled  the  lore 
Of  harbourer,  huntsman,  hounds  and  all, 
Of  harbourer,  hounds  and  all — 
The  stag  of  warrant,  the  wily  stag, 
For  twenty  miles,  and  five  and  five, 
He  ran,  and  he  never  was  caught  alive, 
This  stag,  this  runnable  stag. 


66  ANIMALS 

When  he  turn'd  at  bay  in  the  leafy  gloom, 

In  the  emerald  gloom  where  the  brook  ran  deep, 
He  heard  in  the  distance  the  rollers  boom, 
And  he  saw  in  a  vision  of  peaceful  sleep 
In  a  wonderful  vision  of  sleep, 
A  stag  of  warrant,  a  stag,  a  stag, 
A  runnable  stag  in  a  jewelTd  bed, 
Under  the  sheltering  ocean  dead, 
A  stag,  a  runnable  stag. 

So  a  fateful  hope  lit  up  his  eye, 

And  he  open'd  his  nostrils  wide  again, 
And  he  toss'd  his  branching  antlers  high 

As  he  headed  the  hunt  down  the  Charlock  glen, 
As  he  raced  down  the  echoing  glen — 
For  five  miles  more,  the  stag,  the  stag, 
For  twenty  miles,  and  five  and  five, 
Not  to  be  caught  now,  dead  or  alive, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 

Three  hundred  gentlemen,  able  to  ride, 

Three  hundred  horses  as  gallant  and  free, 
Beheld  him  escape  on  the  evening  tide, 
Far  out  till  he  sank  in  the  Severn  Sea, 
Till  he  sank  in  the  depths  of  the  sea — 
The  stag,  the  buoyant  stag,  the  stag 
That  slept  at  last  in  a  jewell'd  bed 
Under  the  sheltering  ocean  spread, 
The  stag,  the  runnable  stag. 

JOHN  DAVIDSON. 


E.  H.  BLAKENEY  67 

ST.   VALENTINE'S  DAY 

TO-DAY,  all  day,  I  rode  upon  the  down, 
With  hounds  and  horsemen,  a  brave  company, 
On  this  side  in  its  glory  lay  the  sea, 
On  that  side  Sussex  weald,  a  sea  of  brown. 
The  wind  was  light,  and  brightly  the  sun  shone, 
And  still  we  galloped  on  from  gorse  to  gorse: 
And  once,  when  checked,  a  thrush  sang,  and  my  horse 
Pricked  his  quick  ears  as  to  a  sound  unknown. 
I  knew  the  Spring  was  come.    I  knew  it  even 
Better  than  all  by  this,  that  through  my  chase 
In  bush  and  stone  and  hill  and  sea  and  heaven 
I  seemed  to  see  and  follow  still  your  face. 
Your  face  my  quarry  was.   For  it  I  rode, 
My  horse  a  thing  of  wings,  myself  a  god. 

WILFRID  SCAWEN  BLUNT. 


TO  A  FAVOURITE  CAT 

I  TOOK  my  beautiful  puss  to-day 
(Sleek  and  fluffy  and  bland  was  she), 

And  set  her  down  on  the  hearth  to  play 
(Beloved  as  only  a  cat  may  be). 

My  hand  would  tickle  her  velvet  paws 
(Black  and  velvety  paws  had  she) 


68  ANIMALS 

And  toy  with  the  innocent-seeming  claws, 
Sheathed  as  only  a  cat's  may  be. 

Soft  and  deep  was. her  coat  so  bright 

(Deep  and  soft,  like  a  starless  sea) ; 
And  her  eyes  were  lit  with  a  far,  strange  light — 

Mystic,  subtle,  with  love  for  me. 

So  I  fell  to  wondering  (as  she  lay 

Close  to  the  fire  as  a  cat  may  be) 
If,  centuries  since,  we  twain  were  one, 

Lit  with  hopes  of  the  days  to  be. 

Perhaps :  who  knows  ?  Yet  if  such  be  true 

(Whisper  the  secret,  Fluff,  to  me !) 
Much  would  it  help  me  comprehend 

That  haunting  flame  in  the  eyes  of  thee. 

Perchance,  by  shores  of  some  deep  lagoon, 
Thy  face  met  mine — as  it  now  meets  me; 

By  Nilus'  banks,  'neath  an  Afric  moon, 
I  told  my  love — as  I  now  tell  thee. 

It  may  be,  Sweet,  that  I  stroked  thy  hand 

Softly,  as  now  I  am  stroking  thee, 
When  our  lives  were  free  as  the  desert  sand — 

A  couple  of  thousand  years  B.C. 

EDWARD  HENRY  BLAKENEY. 


RALPH   HODGSON  69 

Xv 

THE   BULL 

SEE  an  old  unhappy  bull, 
Sick  in  soul  and  body  both, 
Slouching  in  the  undergrowth 
Of  the  forest  beautiful, 
Banished  from  the  herd  he  led, 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  head. 

Cranes  and  gaudy  parrots  go 

Up  and  down  the  burning  sky; 

Tree-top  cats  purr  drowsily 

In  the  dim-day  green  below; 

And  troops  of  monkeys,  nutting,  some, 

All  disputing,  go  and  come; 

And  things  abominable  sit 
Picking  offal  buck  or  swine, 
On  the  mess  and  over  it 
Burnished  flies  and  beetles  shine, 
And  spiders  big  as  bladders  lie 
Under  hemlocks  ten  foot  high. 

And  a  dotted  serpent  curled 
Round  and  round  and  round  a  tree, 
Yellowing  its  greenery, 
Keeps  a  watch  on  all  the  world, 
All  the  world  and  this  old  bull 
In  the  forest  beautiful. 


70  ANIMALS 

Bravely  by  his  fall  he  came: 

One  he  led,  a  bull  of  blood 

Newly  come  to  lustihood, 

Fought  and  put  his  prince  to  shame, 

Snuffed  and  pawed  the  prostrate  head 

Tameless  even  while  it  bled. 

There  they  left  him,  every  one, 
Left  him  there  without  a  lick, 
Left  him  for  the  birds  to  pick, 
Left  him  there  for  carrion, 
Vilely  from  their  bosom  cast 
Wisdom,  worth  and  love  at  last. 

When  the  lion  left  his  lair 

And  roared  his  beauty  through  the  hills, 

And  the  vultures  pecked  their  quills 

And  flew  into  the  middle  air, 

Then  this  prince  no  more  to  reign 

Came  to  life  and  lived  again. 

He  snuffed  the  herd  in  far  retreat, 
He  saw  the  blood  upon  the  ground, 
And  snuffed  the  burning  airs  around 
Still  with  beevish  odours  sweet, 
While  the  blood  ran  down  his  head 
And  his  mouth  ran  slaver  red. 

Pity  him,  this  fallen  chief, 

All  his  splendour,  all  his  strength, 


RALPH   HODGSON  71 

All  his  body's  breadth  and  length 
Dwindled  down  with  shame  and  grief, 
Half  the  bull  he  was  before, 
Bones  and  leather,  nothing  more. 

See  him  standing  dewlap-deep 
In  the  rushes  at  the  lake, 
Surly,  stupid,  half  asleep, 
Waiting  for  his  heart  to  break 
And  the  birds  to  join  the  flies 
Feasting  at  his  bloodshot  eyes; 

Standing  with  his  head  hung  down 
In  a  stupor,  dreaming  things : 
Green  savannas,  jungles  brown, 
Battlefields  and  bellowings, 
Bulls  undone  and  lions  dead, 
And  vultures  flapping  overhead. 

Dreaming  things :  of  days  he  spent 
With  his  mother  gaunt  and  lean 
In  the  valley  warm  and  green, 
Full  of  baby  wonderment, 
Blinking  out  of  silly  eyes 
At  a  hundred  mysteries; 

Dreaming  over  once  again 
How  he  wandered  with  a  throng 
Of  bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong, 
Wandered  on  from  plain  to  plain, 


72  ANIMALS 

Up  the  hill  and  down  the  dale, 
Always  at  his  mother's  tail; 

How  he  lagged  behind  the  herd, 
Lagged  and  tottered,  weak  of  limb, 
And  she  turned  and  ran  to  him 
Blaring  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming  maybe  of  a  day 
When  her  drained  and  drying  paps 
Turned  him  to  the  sweets  and  saps, 
Richer  fountains  by  the  way, 
And  she  left  the  bull  she  bore 
And  he  looked  to  her  no  more; 

And  his  little  frame  grew  stout, 
And  his  little  legs  grew  strong, 
And  the  way  was  not  so  long; 
And  his  little  horns  came  out, 
And  he  played  at  butting  trees, 
And  boulder-stones  and  tortoises, 

Joined  a  game  of  knobby  skulls 
With  the  youngsters  of  his  year, 
All  the  other  little  bulls 
Learning  both  to  bruise  and  bear, 
Learning  how  to  stand  a  shock 
Like  a  little  bull  of  rock. 


RALPH   HODGSON  73 

Dreaming  of  a  day  less  dim, 
Dreaming  of  a  time  less  far, 
When  the  faint  but  certain  star 
Of  destiny  burned  clear  for  him, 
And  a  fierce  and  wild  unrest 
Broke  the  quiet  of  his  breast, 

And  the  gristles  of  his  youth 
Hardened  in  his  comely  pow, 
And  he  came  to  fighting  growth, 
Beat  his  bull  and  won  his  cow, 
And  flew  his  tail  and  trampled  off 
Past  the  tallest,  vain  enough, 

And  curved  about  in  splendour  full 
And  curved  again  and  snuffed  the  airs 
As  who  should  say  Come  out  who  dares  I 
And  all  beheld  a  bull,  a  Bull, 
And  knew  that  here  was  surely  one 
That  backed  for  no  bull,  fearing  none. 

And  the  leader  of  the  herd 
Looked  and  saw,  and  beat  the  ground,. 
And  shook  the  forest  with  his  sound, 
Bellowed  at  the  loathly  bird 
Stationed  always  in  the  skies, 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

Dreaming,  this  old  bull  forlorn 
Surely  dreaming  of  the  hour 


74  ANIMALS 

When  he  came  to  sultan-power, 
And  they  owned  him  master-horn, 
Chiefest  bull  of  all  among 
Bulls  and  cows  a  thousand  strong ; 

And  in  all  the  tramping  herd 
Not  a  bull  that  barred  his  way, 
Not  a  cow  that  said  him  nay, 
Not  a  bull  or  cow  that  erred 
In  the  furnace  of  his  look 
Dared  a  second,  worse  rebuke; 

Not  in  all  the  forest  wide, 
Jungle,  thicket,  pasture,  fen, 
Not  another  dared  him  then, 
Dared  him  and  again  defied  ; 
Not  a  sovereign  buck  or  boar 
Came  a  second  time  for  more; 

Not  a  serpent  that  survived 
Once  the  terrors  of  his  hoof 
Risked  a  second  time  reproof, 
Came  a  second  time  and  lived, 
Not  a  serpent  in  its  skin 
Came  again  for  discipline ; 

Not  a  leopard  bright  as  flame 
Flashing  fingerhooks  of  steel 
That  a  wooden  tree  might  feel, 
Met  his  fury  once  and  came 


RALPH   HODGSON  75 

For  a  second  reprimand, 
Not  a  leopard  in  the  land; 

Not  a  lion  of  them  all, 
Not  a  lion  of  the  hills, 
Hero  of  a  thousand  kills, 
Dared  a  second  fight  and  fall, 
Dared  that  ram  terrific  twice, 
Paid  a  second  time  the  price. 

Pity  him,  this  dupe  of  dream, 
Leader  of  the  herd  again 
Only  in  his  daft  old  brain, 
Once  again  the  bull  supreme 
And  bull  enough  to  bear  the  part 
Only  in  his  tameless  heart. 

Pity  him  that  he  must  wake; 
Even  now  the  swarm  of  flies 
Blackening  his  bloodshot  eyes 
Bursts  and  blusters  round  the  lake, 
Scattered  from  the  feast  half-fed, 
By  great  shadows  overhead ; 

And  the  dreamer  turns  away 
From  his  visionary  herds 
And  his  splendid  yesterday, 
Turns  to  meet  the  loathly  birds 
Flocking  round  him  from  the  skies 
Waiting  for  the  flesh  that  dies. 

RALPH  HODGSON. 


76  ANIMALS 

B£TE  HUMAINE 

RIDING  through  Ruwu  swamp  about  sunrise 

I  saw  the  world  awake;  and  as  the  ray 

Touched  the  tall  grasses  where  they  dream  till  day, 

Lo,  the  bright  air  alive  with  dragon-flies : 

With  brittle  wings  a-quiver,  and  great  eyes 

Piloting  crimson  bodies,  slender  and  gay. 

I  aimed  at  one,  and  struck  it,  and  it  lay 

Broken  and  piteous,  with  fast-fading  dyes. 

Then  my  soul  sickened  with  a  sudden  pain 

And  horror  at  my  own  careless  cruelty, 

That,  where  all  things  were  cruel,  I  had  slain 

A  creature  whose  sweet  life  it  is  to  fly : 

Like  beasts  that  prey  with  bloody  claw  .  .  .  Nay,  they 

Must  slay  to  live,  but  what  excuse  had  I  ? 

FRANCIS  BRETT  YOUNG. 


THE  BELLS   OF  HEAVEN 

'TWOULD  ring  the  bells  of  Heaven 
The  wildest  peal  for  years, 
If  Parson  lost  his  senses 
And  people  came  to  theirs, 
And  he  and  they  together 
Knelt  down  with  angry  prayers 


JAMES   STEPHENS  77 

For  tamed  and  shabby  tigers 
And  dancing  dogs  and  bears, 
And  wretched,  blind  pit  ponies, 
And  little  hunted  hares. 

RALPH  HODGSON. 


THE  SNARE 

I  HEAR  a  sudden  cry  of  pain ! 

There  is  a  rabbit  in  a  snare: 
Now  I  hear  the  cry  again 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where. 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where 

He  is  calling  out  for  aid ; 
Crying  on  the  frightened  air, 

Making  everything  afraid. 

Making  everything  afraid, 
Wrinkling  up  his  little  face, 

As  he  cries  again  for  aid; 
And  I  cannot  find  the  place! 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place 
Where  his  paw  is  in  the  snare: 

Little  one!    Oh,  little  one ! 
I  am  searching  everywhere ! 

JAMES  STEPHENS. 


78  ANIMALS 

ANIMALS 

I  THINK  I  could  turn  and  live  with  animals,  they  are 

so  placid  and  self -contained ; 
I  stand  and  look  at  them  long  and  long. 
They  do  not  sweat  and  whine  about  their  condition; 
They  do  not  lie  awake  in  the  dark  and  weep  for  their 

sins  ; 
They  do  not  make  me  sick  discussing  their  duty  to 

God; 
Not  one  is  dissatisfied — not  one  is  demented  with  the 

mania  of  owning  things; 
Not  one  kneels  to  another,  nor  to  his  kind  that  lived 

thousands  of  years  ago; 
Not  one  is  respectable  or  industrious  over  the  whole 

earth. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 


THE  FISH 

IN  a  cool  curving  world  he  lies 
And  ripples  with  dark  ecstasies. 
The  kind  luxurious  lapse  and  steal 
Shapes  all  his  universe  to  feel 
And  know  and  be ;  the  clinging  stream 
Closes  his  memory,  glooms  his  dream, 
Who  lips  the  roots  o'  the  shore,  and  glides 
Superb  on  unreturning  tides. 


RUPERT   BROOKE  79 

Those  silent  waters  weave  for  him 
A  fluctuant  mutable  world  and  dim, 
Where  wavering  masses  bulge  and  gape 
Mysterious,  and  shape  to  shape 
Dies  momently  through  whorl  and  hollow, 
And  form  and  line  and  solid  follow 
Solid  and  line  and  form  to  dream 
Fantastic  down  the  eternal  stream; 
An  obscure  world,  a  shifting  world, 
Bulbous,  or  pulled  to  thin,  or  curled, 
Or  serpentine,  or  driving  arrows, 
Or  serene  slidings,  or  March  narrows. 
There  slipping  wave  and  shore  are  one, 
And  weed  and  mud.   No  ray  of  sun, 
But  glow  to  glow  fades  down  the  deep 
(As  dream  to  unknown  dream  in  sleep) ; 
Shaken  translucency  illumes 
The  hyaline  of  drifting  glooms; 
The  strange  soft-handed  depth  subdues 
Drowned  colour  there,  but  black  to  hues, 
As  death  to  living,  decomposes — 
Red  darkness  of  the  heart  of  roses, 
Blue  brilliant  from  dead  starless  skies, 
And  gold  that  lies  behind  the  eyes, 
The  unknown  unnameable  sightless  white 
That  is  the  essential  flame  of  night, 
Lustreless  purple,  hooded  green, 
The  myriad  hues  that  lie  between 
Darkness  and  Darkness !  .  .  . 

And  all's  one, 


So  ANIMALS 

Gentle,  embracing,  quiet,  dun, 
The  world  he  rests  in,  world  he  knows, 
Perpetual  curving.    Only — grows 
An  eddy  in  that  ordered  falling, 
A  knowledge  from  the  gloom,  a  calling 
Weed  in  the  wave,  gleam  in  the  mud — 
The  dark  fire  leaps  along  his  blood; 
Dateless  and  deathless,  blind  and  still, 
The  intricate  impulse  works  its  will; 
His  woven  world  drops  back;  and  he, 
Sans  providence,  sans  memory, 
Unconscious  and  directly  driven 
Fades  to  some  dank  sufficient  heaven. 

RUPERT  BROOKE. 


DOG 

You  little  friend,  your  nose  is  ready;  you  sniff 
Asking  for  that  expected  walk, 
(Your  nostrils  full  of  the  happy  rabbit-whiff) 
And  almost  talk. 

And  so  the  moment  becomes  a  moving  force: 
Coats  glide  from  their  pegs  in  the  humble  dark; 
The  sticks  grow  live  to  the  stride  of  their  vagrant 

course. 
You  scamper  the  stairs, 


HAROLD   MONRO  81 

Your  body  informed  with  the  scent  and  the  track 

and  the  mark 
Of  stoats  and  weasels,  moles  and  badgers  and  hares. 

We  are  going  out.   You  know  the  pitch  of  the  word, 
Probing  the  tone  of  thought  as  it  comes  through  fog 
And  reaches  by  devious  means  (half -smelt,  half-heard) 
The  four-legged  brain  of  a  walk-intensive  dog. 

Out  in  the  garden  your  head  is  already  low. 
(Can  you  smell  the  rose?  Ah,  no.) 
But  your  limbs  can  draw 

Life  from  the  earth  through  the  touch  of  your  padded 
paw. 

Now,  sending  a  little  look  to  us  behind, 
Who  follow  slowly  the  track  of  your  lovely  play, 
You  carry  our  bodies  forward  away  from  mind 
Into  the  light  and  fun  of  your  useless  day. 


Thus,  for  your  walk,  we  took  ourselves,  and  went 
Out  by  the  hedge  and  the  tree  and  on  to  the  green. 
You  ran,  in  delightful  strata  of  wafted  scent, 
Over  the  hill  without  seeing  the  view; 
Beauty  is  smell  upon  primitive  smell  to  you: 
To  you,  as  to  us,  it  is  distant  and  rarely  seen. 

Home  .  .  .  and  further  joy  will  be  surely  there: 
Supper  waiting  full  of  the  taste  of  bone. 
F 


82  ANIMALS 

You  throw  up  your  nose  again,  and  sniff,  and  stare 

For  the  habit  known 

Of  the  quick  wild  gorge  of  food  and  the  still  lie-down, 

While  your  people  talk  above  you  in  the  light 

Of  candles,  and  your  dreams  will  merge  and  drown 

Into  the  bed-delicious  hours  of  night. 

HAROLD  MONRO. 


PART   V 
THE    GREAT    WAR 


PART  V.— THE  GREAT  WAR 


IT  is  necessary  to  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  subject 
of  war-poetry.  A  great  deal  of  poetry  has  been 
written  on  this  stupendous  theme,  some  of  it  very 
good,  and  all  of  it  significant.  Yet  it  is  probable  that 
the  great  poet  of  the  war  has  yet  to  arise,  for  a 
cataclysm  so  vast  and  overwhelming  baffles  grasp, 
and  seems  to  lie  beyond  expression. 

These  poems  have  been  written  either  by  men  who 
have  seen  modern  war  and  tried  to  seize  something 
tangible  amid  its  awful  complexity,  or  by  those  who 
have  had  to  stay  behind  and  bear  the  strain  of  sus- 
pense and  anxiety.  The  result  has  been  not  a  vast 
epic  or  drama,  but  a  great  number  of  telling  scenes, 
significant  thoughts,  like  flashes  in  the  great  dark 
chaos.  These  war-thoughts  are  often  expressed  in 
verse  of  extreme  simplicity;  and  this  is  especially  so 
when  the  writers  have  themselves  looked  death  and 
horror  straight  in  the  eyes;  for  to  them  the  thing 
seen  or  the  thought  inspired  is  too  poignant  in  itself 
to  bear  any  elaboration.  One  might  compare  such 
poems  with  Mr.  Nevinson's  famous  picture  The 
Machine-Gun,  which  depics  not  merely  three  French 
soldiers  in  a  trench,  working  a  machine-gun,  but 

85 


86  THE  GREAT   WAR 

the  whole  of  modern  war  expressed  as  a  terrible 
engine  or  system  for  killing  men. 

These  war-poems  express  innumerable  points  of 
view  or  attitudes  of  mind,  of  which  a  few  are  here 
given.  There  is  the  terrific  power  of  subjective  ex- 
pression in  The  Assault]  the  terrible  simplicity  of 
The  Messages;  the  yearning  sadness  and  bewilder- 
ment of  the  poem  called  Clouds}  the  calm  public- 
school  spirit  of  The  Cricketers  of  Flanders  \  the 
rugged  force  of  The  Bushrangers',  the  poignant 
bitterness  of  The  Attack;  the  majesty  of  thought  in 
The  Song  of  the  Soldiers]  the  joy  of  manhood  in  the 
battle  poem  by  Captain  Julian  Grenfell.  And  these 
are  but  a  few  taken  from  a  great  multitude  of  war- 
poems,  each  written  with  a  power  and  conviction 
of  its  own,  like  colour-notes  in  an  artist's  sketch- 
book. 

Whether  the  war-poetry  is  destined  to  live,  it  is 
not  yet  possible  to  say.  All  one  can  be  sure  of  is 
this:  that  when  time  has  dimmed  the  memory  of 
these  terrible  years,  the  thoughts  of  the  men  who 
fought,  and  of  those  who  worked  and  waited  at  home, 
will  be  found  embodied  in  these  poems  by  those  who 
care  to  read.  No  statues,  nor  pictures,  nor  novels 
will  put  those  thoughts  so  intimately  and  vividly 
before  us. 


THOMAS   HARDY  87 

MEN  WHO  MARCH  AWAY 

(SONG   OF  THE   SOLDIERS) 

WHAT  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
Leaving  all  that  here  could  win  us ; 
What  of  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away  ? 

Is  it  a  purblind  prank,  O  think  you, 

Friend  with  the  musing  eye, 

Who  watch  us  stepping  by 

With  doubt  and  dolorous  sigh  ? 
Can  much  pondering  so  hoodwink  you ! 
Is  it  a  purblind  prank,  O  think  you, 

Friend  with  the  musing  eye  ? 

Nay,  we  well  see  what  we  are  doing 

Though  some  may  not  see, 

Dalliers  as  they  be; 

England's  need  are  we; 
Her  distress  would  leave  us  rueing: 
Nay.   We  well  see  what  we  are  doing 

Though  some  may  not  see ! 

In  our  heart  of  hearts  believing 
Victory  crowns  the  just, 
And  that  braggarts  must 


88  THE    GREAT   WAR 

Surely  bite  the  dust, 
Press  we  to  the  field  ungrieving, 
In  our  heart  of  hearts  believing 

Victory  crowns  the  just. 

Hence  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away 

Ere  the  barn-cocks  say 

Night  is  growing  gray, 
Leaving  all  that  here  could  win  us ; 
Hence  the  faith  and  fire  within  us 

Men  who  march  away. 
$th  Sept.  1914.  THOMAS  HARDY. 


HIT 

OUT  of  the  sparkling  sea 
I  drew  my  tingling  body  clear,  and  lay 
On  a  low  ledge  the  livelong  summer  day, 

Basking,  and  watching  lazily 
White  sails  in  Falmouth  Bay. 

My  body  seemed  to  burn 
Salt  in  the   sun   that   drenched   it   through   and 

through 
Till  every  particle  glowed  clean  and  new 

And  slowly  seemed  to  turn 
To  lucent  amber  in  a  world  of  blue.  .  .  . 


WILFRID   W.  GIBSON  89 

I  felt  a  sudden  wrench — 
A  trickle  of  warm  blood — 
And  found  that  I  was  sprawling  in  the  mud 

Among  the  dead  men  in  the  trench. 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON. 


THE  MESSAGES 

"  I  CANNOT  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.   .   .   ." 

Back  from  the  trenches,  more  dead  than  alive, 
Stone-deaf  and  dazed,  and  with  a  broken  knee 
He  hobbled  slowly,  muttering  vacantly : 

"  1  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  .  . 

"  Their  friends  are  waiting,  wondering  how  they 

thrive — 

Waiting  a  word  in  silence  patiently  .  .  . 
But  what  they  said,  or  who  their  friends  may  be 

"  I  cannot  quite  remember.  .  .  .  There  were  five 
Dropt  dead  beside  me  in  the  trench — and  three 
Whispered  their  dying  messages  to  me.  .  .  ." 

WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON. 


90  THE   GREAT  WAR 


THE  ASSAULT 

THE  beating  of  the  guns  grows  louder. 

"  Not  long,  boys,  now.'1 

My  heart  burns  whiter,  fearfuller,  prouder. 

Hurricanes  grow 

As  guns  redouble  their  fire. 

Through  the  shaken  periscope  peeping, 

I  glimpse  their  wire: 

Black  earth,  fountains  of  earth  rise,  leaping, 

Spouting  like  shocks  of  meeting  waves, 

Death's  fountains  are  playing, 

Shells  like  shrieking  birds  rush  over; 

Crash  and  din  rises  higher. 

A  stream  of  lead  raves 

Over  us  from  the  left  .   .   .    (We  safe  under  cover!). 

Crash!  Reverberation!  Crash! 

Acrid  smoke  billowing.   Flash  upon  flash. 

Black  smoke  drifting.  The  German  line 

Vanishes  in  confusion,  smoke.   Cries,  and  cry 

Of  our  men,  "  Gah,  yer  swine  ! 

Ye' re  for  it,"  die 

In  a  hurricane  of  shell. 

One  cry: 

"  We're  comiri  soon  !  look  out !  " 

There  is  opened  hell 

Over  there;  fragments  fly, 

Rifles  and  bits  of  men  whirled  at  the  skv: 


ROBERT   NICHOLS  91 

Dust,  smoke,  thunder!   A  sudden  bout 
Of  machine  guns  chattering  .  .  . 
And  redoubled  battering, 
As  if  in  fury  at  their  daring!  .  .  . 

No  good  staring. 

Time  soon  now  .   .   .  home  .   .   .   house  on  a  sunny 

hill  .  .  . 

Gone  like  a  flickered  page : 
Time  soon  now  .   .   .   zero  .   .   .  will  engage  .   .   . 

A  sudden  thrill — 

"  Fix  bayonets!  " 

Gods !  we  have  our  fill 

Of  fear,  hysteria,  exultation,  rage, 

Rage  to  kill. 

My  heart  burns  hot,  whiter  and  whiter, 

Contracts  tighter  and  tighter, 

Until  I  stifle  with  the  will 

Long  forged,  now  used 

(Though  utterly  strained) — 

O  pounding  heart, 

Baffled,  confused, 

Heart  panged,  head  singing,  dizzily  pained — 

To  do  my  part. 

Blindness  a  moment.    Sick. 
There  the  men  are ! 


92  THE   GREAT   WAR 

Bayonets  ready:  click! 

Time  goes  quick; 

A  stumbled  prayer  .  .  .  somehow  a  blazing  star 

In  a  blue  night  .  .  .  where  ? 

Again  prayer. 

The  tongue  trips.   Start: 

How's  time  ?   Soon  now.   Two  minutes  or  less. 

The  guns'  fury  mounting  higher  .  .  . 

Their    utmost.     I   lift   a  silent    hand.     Unseen   I 

bless 

Those  hearts  will  follow  me. 
And  beautifully 
Now  beautifully  my  will  grips, 
Soul  calm  and  round  and  filmed  and  white! 
A  shout:  "  Men,  no  such  order  as  retire!  " 

I  nod. 

The  whistle's  'twixt  my  lips  .  .  . 

I  catch 

A  wan,  worn  smile  at  me. 

Dear  men ! 

The  pale  wrist-watch  .  .  . 

The  quiet  hand  ticks  on  amid  the  din. 

The  guns  again 

Rise  to  a  last  fury,  to  a  rage,  a  lust : 

Kill!  Pound!  KiU!  Pound!  Pound! 

Now  comes  the  thrust! 

My  part  .  .  .  dizziness  .  .  .  will  .  .  .  but  trust 

These  men.   The  great  guns  rise; 

Their  fury  seems  to  burst  the  earth  and  skies ! 


ROBERT   NICHOLS  93 

They  lift. 

Gather,  heart,  all  thoughts  that  drift; 

Be  steel,  soul, 

Compress  thyself 

Into  a  round  bright  whole. 

I  cannot  speak. 

Time.   Time! 

I  hear  my  whistle  shriek, 

Between  teeth  set; 

I  fling  an  arm  up, 

Scramble  up  the  grime 

Over  the  parapet ! 

I'm  up.   Go  on. 

Something  meets  us. 

Head  down  into  the  storm  that  greets  us. 

A  wail. 

Lights.   Blurr. 

Gone. 

On,  on.   Lead.   Lead.   Hail. 

Spatter.   Whirr!   Whirr! 

"  Toward  that  patch  of  brown  ; 

Direction  left"   Bullets  a  stream. 

Devouring  thought  crying  in  a  dream. 

Men,  crumpled,  going  down  .  .  . 

Go  on.   Go. 

Deafness.   Numbness.  The  loudening  tornado. 

Bullets.   Mud.   Stumbling  and  skating. 

My  voice's  strangled  shout : 

"  Steady  pace,  boys  !  " 


94  THE  GREAT   WAR 

The  still  light :  gladness. 

"  Look,  sir.   Look  out !  " 

Ha!  ha!  Bunched  figures  waiting. 

Revolver  levelled  quick ! 

Flick!  Flick! 

Red  as  blood. 

Germans.    Germans. 

Good !   O  good ! 

Cool  madness. 

ROBERT  NICHOLS. 


THE   BUSHRANGERS 

As  I  was  walking  down  Oxford  Street 
Ten  fierce  soldiers  I  chanced  to  meet, 
They  wore  big  slouch  hats  and  khaki  sashes, 
And  talked  like  the  angry  guns,  jn  flashes. 

And    my   friend    said   to   me,    "  They   come   from 

Australia; 

Villainous  fellows  for  War's  regalia. 
John  Briton  keeps  a  tobacconist's  shed 
And  twice  they  have  held  a  gun  at  his  head." 

Well,  I  would  have  given  all  I  had 
To  have  gone  with  the  bunch  of  them,  good  or  bad, 
To  have  heard  the  wickedest  say,  "  Old  fellow!  " 
And  staunched  his  wounds  where  the  black  guns 
bellow. 


SIEGFRIED  SASSOON  95 

I'd  have  thought  it  a  merry  thing  to  die 
With  such  stalwart  comrades  standing  by. 

One  of  them  had  round  eyes  like  coals — 
True  parson's  quarry  when  he  hunts  souls. 
The  brawniest  made  my  heart  turn  queer; 
The  devil  in  hell  would  have  shunned  his  leer.  • 
And  the  tallest  and  thinnest  bore  visible  traces 
Of  his  banished  grandsire's  vanished  graces. 

But  all  the  lot  of  that  swaggering  ten 
Were  terrible,  fine,  strong  soldier  men ; 
And  I  fairly  sobbed  at  the  four  cross  ways 
As  my  triumphing  soul  sang  England's  praise. 

O!  all  the  Germans  in  Berlin  town 
Couldn't  put  those  ten  Australians  down. 

HERBERT  E.  PALMER. 


y      ATTACK 

Ax  dawn  the  ridge  emerges  massed  and  dun 
In  the  wild  purple  of  the  glowering  sun, 
Smouldering  through  spouts  of  drifting  smoke  that 

shroud 

The  menacing  scarred  slope;  and,  one  by  one, 
Tanks  creep  and  topple  forward  to  the  wire. 
The  barrage  roars  and  lifts.   Then,  clumsily  bowed 
With  bombs  and  guns  and  shovels  and  battle  gear, 


96  THE   GREAT  WAR 

Men  jostle  and  climb  to  meet  the  bristling  fire. 
Lines  of  grey,  muttering  faces,  masked  with  fear, 
They  leave  their  trenches,  going  over  the  top, 
While  time  ticks  blank  and  busy  on  their  wrists, 
And  hope,  with  furtive  eyes  and  grappling  fists, 
Flounders  in  mud.    O  Jesu,  make  it  stop! 

SIEGFRIED  SASSOON. 


THE  CRICKETERS   OF  FLANDERS 

THE  first  to  climb  the  parapet 
With  '  cricket-ball '  in  either  hand ; 
The  first  to  vanish  in  the  smoke 
Of  God-forsaken  No-Man's  land. 
First  at  the  wire  and  soonest  through, 
First  at  those  red-mouthed  hounds  of  hell 
The  Maxims,  and  the  first  to  fall, — 
They  do  their  bit,  and  do  it  well. 

Full  sixty  yards  I've  seen  them  throw 
With  all  that  nicety  of  aim 
They  learned  on  British  cricket-fields. 
Ah !  bombing  is  a  Briton's  game ! 
Shell-hole  to  shell-hole,  trench  to  trench, 
"  Lobbing  them  over,"  with  an  eye 
As  true  as  though  it  were  a  game, 
And  friends  were  having  tea  close  by. 


ANONYMOUS  97 

Pull  down  some  art-offending  thing 
Of  carven  stone,  and  in  its  stead 
Let  splendid  bronze  commemorate 
Thes.e  men,  the  living  and  the  dead. 
No  figure  of  heroic  size 
Towering  skyward  like  a  god; 
But  just  a  lad  who  might  have  stepped 
From  any  British  bombing  squad. 

His  shrapnel  helmet  set  a-tilt, 

His  bombing  waistcoat  sagging  low, 

His  rifle  slung  across  his  back: 

Poised  in  the  very  act  to  throw. 

And  let  some  graven  legend  tell 

Of  those  weird  battles  in  the  West 

Wherein  he  put  old  skill  to  use 

And  played  old  games  with  sterner  zest. 

Thus  should  he  stand,  reminding  those 
In  less  believing  days,  perchance, 
How  Britain's  fighting  cricketers 
Helped  bomb  the  Germans  out  of  France. 
And  other  eyes  than  ours  would  see; 
And  other  hearts  than  ours  would  thrill, 
And  others  say,  as  we  have  said : 
"  A  sportsman  and  a  soldier  still!  " 

ANONYMOUS. 


98  THE   GREAT  WAR 

INTO  BATTLE 

THE  naked  earth  is  warm  with  Spring, 

And  with  green  grass  and  bursting  trees 
Leans  to  the  sun's  gaze  glorying, 

And  quivers  in  the  sunny  breeze; 
And  life  is  Colour  and  Warmth  and  Light, 

And  a  striving  evermore  for  these; 
And  he  is  dead  who  will  not  fight, 

And  who  dies  fighting  has  increase. 

The  fighting  man  shall  from  the  sun 
Take  warmth,  and  life  from  the  glowing  earth; 

Speed  with  the  light-foot  winds  to  run, 
And  with  the  trees  to  newer  birth; 

And  find,  when  fighting  shall  be  done, 
Great  rest,  and  fullness  after  dearth. 

All  the  bright  company  of  Heaven 
Hold  him  in  their  high  comradeship, 

The  Dog-star,  and  the  Sisters  Seven, 
Orion's  Belt  and  sworded  hip. 

The  woodland  trees  that  stand  together 
They  stand  to  him  each  one  a  friend; 

They  gently  speak  in  the  windy  weather; 
They  guide  to  valley  and  ridge's  end. 

The  kestrel  hovering  by  day 

And  the  little  owls  that  call  by  night, 


JULIAN   GRENFELL  99 

Bid  him  be  swift  and  keen  as  they, 
As  keen  of  ear,  as  swift  of  sight. 

The  blackbird  sings  to  him,  "  Brother,  brother, 
If  this  be  the  last  song  you  shall  sing 

Sing  well,  for  you  may  not  sing  another; 
Brother,  sing/' 

In  dreary  doubtful  waiting  hours, 

Before  the  brazen  frenzy  starts, 
The  horses  show  him  nobler  powers; — 

O  patient  eyes;  courageous  hearts ! 

And  when  the  burning  moment  breaks, 
And  all  things  else  are  out  of  mind, 

And  only  Joy  of  Battle  takes 

Him  by  the  throat  and  makes  him  blind, 

Through  joy  and  blindness  he  shall  know, 
Not  caring  much  to  know,  that  still 

Nor  lead  nor  steel  shall  reach  him,  so 
That  it  be  not  the  Destined  Will. 

The  thundering  line  of  battle  stands, 
And  in  the  air  Death  moans  and  sings; 

But  Day  shall  clasp  him  with  strong  hands, 
And  Night  shall  fold  him  in  soft  wings. 

JULIAN  GRENFELL. 

(Captain  the  Hon.  Julian  Grenfell,  D.S.O.,  was  wounded  at 
Ypres,  1 3th  May,  and  died  at  Boulogne  26th  May,  1915.) 


ioo  THE  GREAT   WAR 

YEARS  AHEAD 

YEARS  ahead,  years  ahead, 

Who  shall  honour  our  sailor-dead  ? 

For  the  wild  North  Sea,  the  bleak  North  Sea, 

Threshes  and  seethes  so  endlessly. 

Gathering  foam  and  changing  crest 

Heave  and  hurry,  and  know  no  rest : 
How  can  they  mark  our  sailor-dead 
In  the  years  ahead  ? 

Time  goes  by,  time  goes  by, 

And  who  shall  tell  where  our  soldiers  lie  ? 
The  guiding  trench-cut  winds  afar, 
Miles  upon  miles  where  the  dead  men  are; 
A  cross  of  wood,  or  a  carven  block, 
A  name-disc  hung  on  a  rifle-stock — 

These  shall  tell  where  our  soldiers  lie 
As  the  time  goes  by. 

Days  to  come,  days  to  come — 

But  who  shall  ask  of  the  wandering  foam, 

The  weaving  weed,  or  the  rocking  swell, 

The  place  of  our  sailor-dead  to  tell  ? 

From  Jutland  reefs  to  Scapa  Flow 

Tracks  of  the  wary  warships  go, 

But  the  deep  sea-wastes  lie  green  and  dumb 
All  the  days  to  come. 


JOHN   DRINKWATER  101 

Years  ahead,  years  ahead, 
The  sea  shall  honour  our  sailor-dead ! 
No  mound  of  mouldering  earth  shall  show 
The  fighting  place  of  the  men  below, 
But  a  swirl  of  seas  that  gather  and  spill; 
And  the  wind's  wild  chanty  whistling  shrill 
Shall  cry  "  Consider  my  sailor-dead!  " 
In  the  years  ahead. 

GUY  N.  POCOCK. 


CLOUDS 

BECAUSE  a  million  voices  call 
Across  the  earth  distractedly, 

Because  the  thrones  of  reason  fall 
And  beautiful  battalions  die, 

My  mind  is  like  a  madrigal 

Played  on  a  lute  long  since  put  by. 

In  common  use  my  mind  is  still 
Eager  for  every  lovely  thing — 

The  solitudes  of  tarn  and  hill, 

Bright  birds  with  honesty  to  sing, 

Bluebells  and  primroses  that  spill 
Cascades  of  colour  on  the  spring. 

But  now  my  mind  that  gave  to  these 
Gesture  and  shape,  colour  and  song, 


102  THE   GREAT   WAR 

Goes  hesitant  and  ill  at  ease, 

And  the  old  touch  is  truant  long, 

Because  the  continents  and  seas 
Are  loud  with  lamentable  wrong. 

JOHN  DRINKWATER. 


THE  WINGING  SOULS 

WHEN  good  men's  bodies  die,  their  souls  go  winging 

To  God :  go  winging  and  singing 

Through  space.   And  God,  smiling  but  august, 

From  heav'n,  of  angels  sends  a  little  throng 

To  meet  the  happy  souls  so  newly  freed  from  dust — 

To  greet  the  happy  souls  singing  their  song. 

In  bed  I  lay  one  night  wakefully  thinking 

Of  France:  lay  thinking,  and  shrinking 

From  Death.   I  saw  smitten,  and  wet  with  Death, 

A  thousand  men  of  Britain — brothers,  sons. 

Twisted  and  torn  were  they,  their  latest  breath 

A  cry  crushed  by  the  thunder  of  the  guns. 

Foulness  below  .  .  .  But  up  above  ? 

O,  up  above  was  Love  .  .  . 

I  saw  a  thousand  souls 

Winging  to  God. 

He  met  them  on  Heav'n's  stair 

And  took  them  in  His  care. 


ROBERT  GRAVES  103 

Heav'n's  corridors  and  ways 
Are  open  to  them  all  their  days. 
And  as  I  fell  on  sleep  I  heard  their  winging, 
And  as  I  woke  this  morn  I  heard  their  singing. 
GERALD  CUMBERLAND. 


THE  DEAD  FOX  HUNTER 

WE  found  the  little  captain  at  the  head; 

His  men  lay  well  aligned. 
We  touched  his  hand — stone  cold — and  he  was  dead, 

And  they,  all  dead  behind, 

Had  never  reached  their  goal,  but  they  died  well; 
They  charged  in  line,  and  in  the  same  line  fell. 

The  well-known  rosy  colours  of  his  face 

Were  almost  lost  in  grey. 
We  saw  that,  dying  and  in  hopeless  case, 

For  others*  sake  that  day 
He'd  smothered  all  rebellious  groans:  in  death 
His  fingers  were  tight  clenched  between  his  teeth. 

For  those  who  live  uprightly  and  die  true 

Heaven  has  no  bars  or  locks, 
And  serves  all  taste  ...   Or  what's  for  him  to  do 

Up  there  but  hunt  the  fox? 
Angelic  choirs  ?    No,  Justice  must  provide 
For  one  who  rode  straight  and  at  hunting  died. 


104  THE  GREAT  WAR 

So  if  Heaven  had  no  Hunt  before  he  came, 

Why  it  must  find  one  now: 
If  any  shirk  and  doubt  they  know  the  game, 

There's  one  to  teach  them  how: 
And  the  whole  host  of  Seraphim  complete 
Must  jog  in  scarlet  to  his  opening  Meet. 

ROBERT  GRAVES. 


PART    VI 
FANCY 


PART  VI.— FANCY 
OR,  POETRY  FOR  POETRY'S  SAKE 

WHEN  we  read  poetry  there  are  certain  questions 
that  naturally  enter  our  minds,  and  seem  to  call  for 
an  answer.  What  is  poetry,  and  what  is  it  for  ?  Why 
do  we  read  it,  and  why  did  the  poets  write  it  ? 

Well,  these  are  big  questions;  but  the  answers,  in 
brief,  are  not  hard  to  find.  We  read  poetry  to  enjoy 
it — because  it  adds  another  delight  to  life,  for  those 
who  have  ears  to  hear.  And  the  poets'  write  it  be- 
cause they  have  a  keener  imaginative  insight  into 
the  real  significance  of  things  than  most  men;  and 
besides  this  they  are  able  to  use  words  in  such 
wonderful  fashion  as  to  conjure  up  for  us  a  sense  of 
beauty  or  power,  the  existence  of  which  we  had 
not  suspected,  or  only  vaguely,  'at  the  back  of  our 
minds/  This,  primarily,  is  what  poetry  is  '  for/ 

But  a  poem  need  not  necessarily  tell  a  story,  like 
Enoch  Arden;  nor  arouse  patriotic  zeal,  as  in  Scots  wha 
hae  wiy  Wallace  bled;  nor  paint  a  scene  with  wonder- 
ful words;  nor  call  forth  our  pity  or  anger.  It  may 
do  all  these  things,  and  more.  But  there  is  something 
else  it  can  do.  It  can  transport  us  into  another  world 
,  world  outside  Space  and  Time  altogether. 
107 


lo8  FANCY 

This  world  of  Fancy,  and  Romance,  and  Imagin- 
ation lies  all  around  us  and  quite  close  to  us,  but  it 
is  often  just  out  of  reach  until  the  poet  supplies  the 
key.  As  a  child  one  did  not  have  to  bother  about 
'  getting  there  ' :  one  turned  the  table  upside-down 
— and  it  was  a  magic  ship,  sailing  in  fancy  to  ports 
and  countries,  real  or  unreal.  But  the  convention- 
alities of  life  naturally  dim  one's  imagination  as  one 
grows  older;  and  then  if  we  would  escape  from  the 
humdrum  world  of  facts,  we  must  let  the  poets — 
who  have  never  lost  the  children's  secret — show  us 
the  way  in. 

The  people  who  inhabit  this  world  are  not  real 
people;  they  need  not  think  or  act  like  real  people; 
and  the  scenes  need  not  be  very  like  anything  we 
know  in  experience.  It  is  all  a  blend  between  what 
the  poet  had  in  his  own  mind,  and  what  he  stimu- 
lates in  ours  when  we  read  as  poetically  as  we  can. 
And  then  our  experience  of  this  world  of  Fancy  is 
real  enough. 

Take  the  first  poem,  From  "Arabian  Nights 
Entertainments."  Here  the  poet  tells  how  as  a  boy 
he  was  transformed  and  transported  by  the  magic 
of  a  book — and  he  transports  us  too,  by  the  magic 
of  his  words.  In  the  second  poem,  Fallen  Cities,  it 
is  a  little  heap  of  sand  that  opens  the  gates  of  the 
past.  And  in  such  poems  as  Off  the  Ground  we  are 
danced  right  out  of  the  normal  world,  and  move  in 
realms  that  lie  beyond  experience. 


W.   E.   HENLEY  109 

FROM    -ARABIAN   NIGHTS 
ENTERTAINMENTS  " 

(The  poet  recalls  his  wonder  at  reading  the  Arabian  Nights 
as  a  little  boy.) 

ONCE  on  a  time 

There  was  a  little  boy:  a  master-mage 

By  virtue  of  a  Book 

Of  magic — O,  so  magical  it  filled 

His  life  with  visionary  pomps 

Processional!  And  Powers 

Passed  with  him  where  he  passed. 

•         ••••» 

I  shut  mine  eyes  .  .  .  And  lo! 
A  flickering  snatch  of  memory  that  floats 
Upon  the  face  of  a  pool  of  darkness  five 
And  thirty  dead  years  deep. 


—Sailing  to  the  Isles 

Of  Khaledan,  I  spied  one  evenfall 

A  black  blotch  in  the  sunset ;  and  it  grew 

Swiftly  .  .  .  and  grew.   Tearing  their  beards 

The  sailors  wept  and  prayed ;  but  the  grave  ship, 

Deep  laden  with  spiceries  and  pearls,  went  mad, 

Wrenched  the  long  tiller  out  of  the  steersman's  hand, 

And,  turning  broadside  on, 

As  the  most  iron  would,  was  haled  and  sucked 


no  FANCY 

Nearer,  and  nearer  yet; 

And,  all  awash,  with  horrible  lurching  leaps 

Rushed  at  the  portent,  casting  a  shadow  now 

That  swallowed  sea  and  sky;  and  then, 

Anchors  and  nails  and  bolts 

Flew  screaming  out  of  her,  and  with  clang  on  clang, 

A  noise  of  fifty  stithies,  caught  at  the  sides 

Of  the  Magnetic  Mountain ;  and  she  lay, 

A  broken  bundle  of  firewood,  strown  piecemeal 

About  the  waters ;  and  her  crew 

Passed  shrieking,  one  by  one;  and  I  was  left 

To  drown.  All  the  long  night  I  swam ; 

But  in  the  morning,  0,  the  smiling  coast 

Tufted  with  date-trees,  meadowlike, 

Skirted  with  shelving  sands !  And  a  great  wave 

Cast  me  ashore;  and  I  was  saved  alive. 

So,  giving  thanks  to  God,  I  dried  my  clothes, 

And,  faring  inland,  in  a  desert  place 

I  stumbled  on  an  iron  ring — 

The  fellow  of  fifty  built  into  the  Quays: 

When,  scenting  a  trap-door, 

I  dug,  and  dug;  until  my  biggest  blade 

Stuck  into  wood.   And  then, 

The  flight  of  smooth-hewn,  easy-falling  stairs, 

Sunk  in  the  naked  rock !   The  cool,  clean  vault, 

So  neat  with  niche  on  niche  it  might  have  been 

Our  beer-cellar  but  for  the  rows 

Of  brazen  urns  (like  monstrous  chemist's  jars) 

Full  to  the  wide,  squat  throats 

With  gold-dust,  but  a-top 


GERALD   GOULD  in 

A  layer  of  pickled-walnut-looking  things 

I  knew  for  olives !   And  far,  O,  far  away 

A  Princess  of  China  languished !   Far  away 

Was  marriage,  with  a  Vizier  and  a  Chief 

Of  Eunuchs,  and  the  privilege 

Of  going  out  at  night 

To  play — unkenned,  majestical,  secure — 

Where  the  old,  brown,  friendly  river  shaped 

Like  Tigris  shore  for  shore !   Haply  a  Ghoul 

Sat  in  the  churchyard  under  a  frightened  moon, 

A  thighbone  in  his  fist,  and  glared 

At  supper  with  a  Lady:  she  who  took 

Her  rice  with  tweezers  grain  by  grain. 


W.  E.  HENLEY. 


FALLEN  CITIES 


I  GATHERED  with  a  careless  hand, 
There  where  the  waters  night  and  day 
Are  languid  in  the  idle  bay, 

A  little  heap  of  golden  sand; 
And  as  I  saw  it,  in  my  sight 
Awoke  a  vision  brief  and  bright, 

A  city  in  a  pleasant  land. 

I  saw  no  mound  of  earth,  but  fair 
Turrets  and  domes  and  citadels, 
With  murmuring  of  many  bells; 


H2  FANCY 

The  spires  were  white  in  the  blue  air, 
And  men  by  thousands  went  and  came, 
Rapid  and  restless,  and  like  flame 

Blown  by  their  passions  here  and  there. 

With  careless  hand  I  swept  away 
The  little  mound  before  I  knew; 
The  visioned  city  vanished  too, 

And  falTn  beneath  my  fingers  lay. 
Ah  God !  how  many  hast  Thou  seen, 
Cities  that  are  not  and  have  been, 

By  silent  hill  and  idle  bay ! 

GERALD  GOULD. 


FLEET  STREET 

I  NEVER  see  the  newsboys  run 

Amid  the  whirling  street, 

With  swift  untiring  feet, 
To  cry  the  latest  venture  done, 
But  I  expect  one  day  to  hear 

Them  cry  the  crack  of  doom 

And  risings  from  the  tomb, 
With  great  Archangel  Michael  near; 
And  see  them  running  from  the  Fleet 

As  messengers  of  God, 

With  Heaven's  tidings  shod 
About  their  brave  unwearied  feet. 

SHANE  LESLIE. 


W.  DE   LA   MARE  113 


OFF  THE  GROUND 

THREE  jolly  Farmers 

Once  bet  a  pound 

Each  dance  the  others  would 

Off  the  ground. 

Out  of  their  coats 

They  slipped  right  soon, 

And  neat  and  nicesome 

Put  each  his  shoon. 

One — Two — Three ! 

And  away  they  go, 

Not  too  fast 

And  not  too  slow; 

Out  from  the  elm-tree's 

Noonday  shadow, 

Into  the  sun 

And  across  the  meadow. 

Past  the  schoolroom, 

With  knees  well  bent, 

Fingers  a-flicking, 

They  dancing  went. 

Upsides  and  over, 

And  round  and  round, 

They  crossed  click-clacking 

The  Parish  bound; 

By  Tupman's  meadow 

They  did  their  mile, 


H4  FANCY 

Tee-to-tum 

On  a  three-barred  stile. 

Then  straight  through  Whipham 

Downhill  to  Week, 

Footing  it  lightsome 

But  not  too  quick, 

Up  fields  to  Watchet 

And  on  through  Wye, 

Till  seven  fine  churches 

They'd  seen  skip  by — 

Seven  fine  churches, 

And  five  old  mills, 

Farms  in  the  valley, 

And  sheep  on  the  hills; 

Old  Man's  Acre 

And  Dead  Man's  Pool 

All  left  behind 

As  they  danced  through  Wool. 

And  Wool  gone  by 

Like  tops  that  seem 

To  spin  in  sleep 

They  danced  in  dream: 

Withy— Wellover— 

Wassop — Wo — 

Like  an  old  clock 

Their  heels  did  go. 

A  league  and  a  league 

And  a  league  they  went, 

And  not  one  weary 

And  not  one  spent. 


W.  DE  LA  MARE  115 

And  lo !  and  behold ! 

Past  Willow-cum-Leigh 

Stretched  with  its  waters 

The  great  green  sea. 

Says  Farmer  Bates : 

"  I  puffs  and  I  blows, 

What's  under  the  water 

Why  no  man  knows!  " 

Says  Farmer  Giles : 

"  My  mind  comes  weak, 

And  a  good  man  drownded 

Is  far  to  seek." 

But  Farmer  Turvey, 

On  twirling  toes, 

Ups  with  his  gaiters, 

And  in  he  goes : 

Down  where  the  mermaids 

Pluck  and  play 

On  their  twangling  harps 

In  a  sea-green  day; 

Down  where  the  mermaids, 

Finned  and  fair, 

Sleek  with  their  combs 

Their  yellow  hair.  .  .  . 

Bates  and  Giles 

On  the  shingle  sat, 

Gazing  at  Turvey's 

Floating  hat. 

But  never  a  ripple 

Nor  bubble  told 


FANCY 

Where  he  was  supping 

Off  plates  of  gold. 

Never  an  echo 

Rilled  through  the  sea 

Of  the  feasting  and  dancing 

And  minstrelsy. 

They  called — called — called: 

Came  no  reply : 

Nought  but  the  ripples' 

Sandy  sigh. 

Then  glum  and  silent 

They  sat  instead 

Vacantly  brooding 

On  home  and  bed, 

Till  both  together 

Stood  up  and  said: 

"  Us  knows  not,  dreams  not 

Where  you  be, 

Turvey,  unless 

In  the  deep  blue  sea; 

But  axcusing  silver — • 

And  it  comes  most  willing — 

Here's  us  two  paying 

Our  forty  shilling; 

For  it's  sartin  sure,  Turvey, 

Safe  and  sound 

You  danced  us  square,  Turvey, 

Off  the  ground!  " 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 


FRANCES   CORNFORD  117 


THE  PRINCESS  AND  THE  GIPSIES 

As  I  looked  out  one  May  morning 

I  saw  the  tree-tops  green; 
I  said  "  My  crown  I  will  lay  down 

And  live  no  more  a  queen." 

Then  I  tripped  down  my  golden  steps 

All  in  my  silken  gown, 
And  when  I  stood  in  the  open  wood 

I  met  some  gipsies  brown. 

"  O  gentle,  gentle  gipsies, 

That  roam  the  wide  world  through, 
Because  I  hate  my  crown  and  state 
O  let  me  come  with  you. 

"  My  councillors  are  old  and  grey, 

And  sit  in  narrow  chairs ; 
But  you  can  hear  the  birds  sing  clear, 
And  your  hearts  are  light  as  theirs/' 

"  If  you  would  come  along  with  us 
Then  you  must  count  the  cost ; 
For  though  in  spring  the  sweet  birds  sing, 
In  winter  comes  the  frost. 

"  Your  ladies  serve  you  all  the  day 
With  courtesy  and  care; 


n8  FANCY 

Your  fine-shod  feet  they  tread  so  neat ; 
But  gipsies'  feet  go  bare. 

"  You  wash  in  water  running  warm 

Through  basins  all  of  gold; 
The  streams  where  we  roam  have  silvery  foam, 
But  the  streams,  the  streams  are  cold. 

"  And  barley-bread  is  bitter  to  taste, 
While  sugary  cakes  they  please — 
Which  will  you  choose,  O  which  will  you  choose, 
Which  will  you  choose  of  these  ? 

"  For  if  you  choose  the  mountain  streams 

And  barley-bread  to  eat, 
Your  heart  will  be  free  as  the  birds  in  the  tree, 
But  the  stones  will  cut  your  feet. 

"  The  mud  will  spoil  your  silken  gown, 

And  stain  your  insteps  high; 
The  dogs  in  the  farm  will  wish  you  harm 
And  bark  as  you  go  by. 

"  And  though  your  heart  grow  deep  and  gay, 

And  your  heart  grow  wise  and  rich, 
The  cold  will  make  your  bones  to  ache 
And  you  will  die  in  a  ditch." 

"  O  gentle,  gentle  gipsies, 

That  roam  the  wide  world  through, 
Although  I  praise  your  wandering  ways 
I  dare  not  come  with  you." 


ALFRED  NOYES  119 

I  hung  about  their  fingers  brown 

My  ruby  rings  and  chain, 
And  with  my  head  as  heavy  as  lead 

I  turned  me  back  again. 

As  I  went  up  the  palace  steps, 

I  heard  the  gipsies  laugh; 
The  birds  of  Spring  so  sweet  did  sing; 

My  heart  it  broke  in  half. 

FRANCES  CORNFORD. 


THE  MOON   IS   UP 

THE  moon  is  up:  the  stars  are  bright: 

The  wind  is  fresh  and  free ! 
We're  out  to  seek  for  gold  to-night 

Across  the  silver  sea ! 
The  world  was  growing  grey  and  old: 

Break  out  the  sails  again ! 
We're  out  to  seek  a  Realm  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spanish  Main. 

We're  sick  of  all  the  cringeing  knees, 

The  courtly  smiles  and  lies ! 
God,  let  thy  singing  Channel  breeze 

Lighten  our  hearts  and  eyes ! 
Let  love  no  more  be  bought  and  sold 

For  earthly  loss  or  gain ; 
We're  out  to  seek  an  Age  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spanish  Main. 


120  FANCY 

Beyond  the  light  of  far  Cathay, 

Beyond  all  mortal  dreams, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  night  and  day 

Our  El  Dorado  gleams, 
Revealing — as  the  skies  unfold — 

A  star  without  a  stain, 
The  Glory  of  the  Gates  of  Gold 

Beyond  the  Spanish  Main. 

ALFRED  NOYES. 


TO  A  SNOWFLAKE 

WHAT  heart  would  have  thought  you?- 

Past  our  devisal 

(O  filigree  petal!) 

Fashioned  so  purely, 

Fragilely,  surely, 

From  what  Paradisal 

Imagineless  metal, 

Too  costly  for  cost  ? 

Who  hammered  you,  wrought  you, 

From  argentine  vapour? — 

"  God  was  my  shaper 

Passing  surmisal, 

He  hammered,  He  wrought  me, 

From  curled  silver  vapour, 

To  lust  of  His  mind: — 

Thou  couldst  not  have  thought  me! 

So  purely,  so  palely, 


HELEN   GRAY   CONE 


Tinily,  surely, 
Mightily,  frailly, 
Insculped  and  embossed, 
With  His  hammer  of  wind, 
And  His  graver  of  frost." 

FRANCIS  THOMPSON. 


THE  COMMON   STREET 

THE  common  street  climbed  up  against  the  sky, 
Gray  meeting  gray;  and  wearily  to  and  fro 
I  saw  the  patient,  common  people  go, 
Each  with  his  sordid  burden  trudging  by. 
And  the  rain  dropped;  there  was  not  any  sigh 
Or  stir  of  a  live  wind ;  dull,  dull,  and  slow 
All  motion;  as  a  tale  told  long  ago 
The  faded  world;  and  creeping  night  drew  nigh. 

Then  burst  the  sunset,  flooding  far  and  fleet, 

Leavening  the  whole  of  life  with  magic  leaven. 

Suddenly  down  the  long,  wet  glistening  hill 

Pure  splendour  poured — and  lo !  the  common  street, 

A  golden  highway  into  golden  heaven, 

With  the  dark  shapes  of  men  ascending  still. 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 


PART  VII 
LIFE  AND  DEATH 


PART  VIL— LIFE  AND  DEATH 

IT  is  difficult  to  say  whether  there  is  a  distinctive 
attitude  expressed  in  modern  poetry  treating  of  this 
greatest  of  subjects.  Yet  in  reading  the  many  such 
poems  dating  from  Browning's  latest  period  to  the 
present  day,  one  cannot  help  remarking  that  the 
note  struck  is  usually,  though  not  invariably,  one  of 
brave  and  healthy  optimism. 

"  Vanity,  saith  the  preacher,  all  is  vanity,"  is  no 
longer  the  dominant  theme.  Rather  it  is  that  life  is 
worth  the  living,  and  death,  too,  is  worth  the  dying. 
The  cult  of  Fitzgerald's  beautiful  '  translation '  of 
the  Rubdiydt  of  Omar  Khayyam  has  passed,  or  is 
passing.  "  Let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  "  by  all 
means,  but  not  "  for  to-morrow  we  die/'  but  because 
to-morrow  we  live — or  at  least  with  incorrigible 
optimism  we  persist  in  hoping  so. 

Thus  the  first  two  poems  here  quoted  are  ex- 
hortations to  live  bravely  and  to  the  full;  while 
Stevenson's  little  Requiem  denotes  the  happy  Passing. 
An  Epitaph  strikes  a  more  wistful  note,  and  is  quoted 
for  its  extreme  beauty  and  simplicity;  and  the  verses 
under  the  dedication  Margaritae  Sorori  rise  to  a  height 
of  sublimity  that  has  rarely  been  surpassed — the 
second  verse  being  in  itself  perhaps  the  greatest 
poem  that  Henley  ever  wrote. 

Of  the  structure  of  this  last  poem  we  shall  have 
something  further  to  say  in  the  next  section. 
'25 


126  LIFE  AND  DEATH 


LAUGH  AND  BE  MERRY 

LAUGH  and  be  merry,  remember,  better  the  world 

with  a  song, 
Better  the  world  with  a  blow  in  the  teeth  of  a 

wrong. 
Laugh,  for  the  time  is  brief,  a  thread  the  length  of  a 

span. 
Laugh,  and  be  proud  to  belong  to  the  old  proud 

pageant  of  man. 

Laugh  and  be  merry:  remember,  in  olden  time, 
God  made  Heaven  and  Earth  for  the  joy  He  took  in 

a  rhyme, 
Made  them  and  filled  them  full  with  the  strong  red 

wine  of  His  mirth, 
The  splendid  joy  of  the  stars:   the  joy  of  the  earth. 

So  we  must  laugh  and  drink  from  the  deep  blue  cup 

of  the  sky, 
Join  the  jubilant  song  of  the  great  stars  sweeping 

by, 

Laugh,  and  battle,  and  work,  and  drink  of  the  wine 

outpoured 
In  the  dear  green  earth,  the  sign  of  the  joy  of  the 

Lord. 


MARGARET  L.  WOODS  127 

Laugh  and  be  merry  together,  like  brothers  akin, 
Guesting  awhile  in  the  rooms  of  a  beautiful  inn, 
Glad  till  the  dancing  stops,  and  the  lilt  of  the  music 

ends. 
Laugh  till  the  game  is  played;  and  be  you  merry,  my 

friends. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 


GAUDEAMUS  IGITUR 

COME  no  more  of  grief  and  dying  1 
Sing  the  time  too  swiftly  flying. 

Just  an  hour 

Youth's  in  flower, 
Give  me  roses  to  remember 
In  the  shadow  of  December. 

Fie  on  steeds  with  leaden  paces ! 
Winds  shall  bear  us  on  our  races, 

Speed,  O  speed, 

Wind,  my  steed, 

Beat  the  lightning  for  your  master, 
Yet  my  fancy  shall  fly  faster. 

Give  me  music,  give  me  rapture, 
Youth  that's  fled  can  none  recapture ; 

Not  with  thought 

Wisdom's  bought. 


128  LIFE  AND   DEATH 

Out  on  pride  and  scorn  and  sadness ! 
Give  me  laughter,  give  me  gladness. 

Sweetest  Earth,  I  love  and  love  thee, 
Seas  about  thee,  skies  above  thee 

Sun  and  storms, 

Hues  and  forms 

Of  the  clouds  with  floating  shadows 
On  thy  mountains  and  thy  meadows. 

Earth,  there's  none  that  can  enslave  thee, 
Not  thy  lords  it  is  that  have  thee; 

Not  for  gold 

Art  thou  sold, 

But  thy  lovers  at  their  pleasure 
Take  thy  beauty  and  thy  treasure. 

While  sweet  fancies  meet  me  singing, 
While  the  April  blood  is  springing 

In  my  breast, 

While  a  jest 

And  my  youth  thou  yet  must  leave  me, 
Fortune,  'tis  not  thou  canst  grieve  me. 

When  at  length  the  grasses  cover 
Me,  the  world's  unwearied  lover, 

If  regret 

Haunt  me  yet, 
It  shall  be  for  joys  untasted, 
Nature  lent  and  folly  wasted. 


MARGARET  L.  WOODS  129 

Youth  and  jests  and  summer  weather, 
Goods  that  kings  and  clowns  together 

Waste  or  use 

As  they  choose, 

These,  the  best,  we  miss  pursuing 
Sullen  shades  that  mock  our  wooing. 

Feigning  Age  will  not  delay  it — 
When  the  reckoning  comes  we'll  pay  it, 

Our  own  mirth 

Has  been  worth 
All  the  forfeit  light  or  heavy 
Wintry  Time  and  Fortune  levy. 

Feigning  grief  will  not  escape  it, 
What  though  ne'er  so  well  you  ape  it — 

Age  and  care 

All  must  share, 
All  alike  must  pay  hereafter, 
Some  for  sighs  and  some  for  laughter. 

Know,  ye  sons  of  Melancholy, 
To  be  young  and  wise  is  folly. 

Tis  the  weak 

Fear  to  wreak 

On  this  clay  of  life  their  fancies, 
Shaping  battles,  shaping  dances. 

While  ye  scorn  our  names  unspoken, 
Roses  dead  and  garlands  broken, 
i 


130  LIFE  AND   DEATH 

0  ye  wise, 

We  arise, 

Out  of  failures,  dreams,  disasters, 
We  arise  to  be  your  masters. 

MARGARET  L.  WOODS. 


AN  EPITAPH 

HERE  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 

Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she; 

I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 

That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 

But  beauty  vanishes;  beauty  passes; 

However  rare — rare  it  be; 

And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 

This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE. 

REQUIEM 

UNDER  the  wide  and  starry  sky 
Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie: 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die, 
And  I  laid  me  down  with  a  will. 

This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me : 
Here  he  lies  where  he  long'd  to  be  ; 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON, 


W.  E.  HENLEY  131 

THE    PASSING 
(Margaritae  Sorori) 

A  LATE  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies; 

And  from  the  west, 

Where  the  sun,  his  day's  work  ended, 

Lingers  as  in  content, 

There  falls  on  the  old,  gray  city 

An  influence  luminous  and  serene, 

A  shining  peace. 

The  smoke  ascends 

In  a  rosy-and-golden  haze.  The  spires 

Shine,  and  are  changed.   In  the  valley 

Shadows  rise.  The  lark  sings  on.  The  sun, 

Closing  his  benediction, 

Sinks,  and  the  darkening  air 

Thrills  with  a  sense  of  the  triumphing  night — 

Night  with  her  train  of  stars 

And  her  great  gift  of  sleep. 

So  be  my  passing! 

My  task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done, 

My  wages  taken,  and  in  my  heart 

Some  late  lark  singing, 

Let  me  be  gathered  to  the  quiet  west, 

The  sundown  splendid  and  serene, 

Death. 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 


132  LIFE  AND   DEATH 


SAINT  BRENDAN 

ST.  BRENDAN,  he  sailed  the  salt  sea  to  the  Island  of 

Birds; 
And  when  he  sailed  back  to  this  coast,  he  spake  holy 

words, 
And  they  built  a  brown  cell  on  the  hill,  where  he 

tarried  a  day. 
How  long  hath  the  thought  of  him  lived,  since  he 

went  the  saints*  way  ? 
"  Hundreds  of  years"  said  the  Bell.     "  Hundreds  of 

years." 

The  church  still  stands  on  the  hill;  the  brown  cell  is 
gone, 

Like  the  leaf  from  the  desolate  tree,  like  the  sun  from 
the  stone. 

How  long  shall  the  worshippers  take  the  grey  path 
to  the  door, 

And  the  quick  step  past  their  own  dead,  on  the  grave- 
covered  floor? 

"  Hundreds  of  years"  said  the  Bell.  "  Hundreds  of 
years." 

The  travail  comes  back  to  the  earth,  like  the  wave 

to  the  sand, 
And  the  wars  return  in  long  waves  that  break  on  the 

land; 


ERNEST   RHYS  133 

How  long  shall  the  sorrow  be  borne,  in  the  eye  of  the 

sun? 
How  long  shall  man  labour  and  pray  till  his  doomsday 

be  done? 
"  Hundreds  of  years"  said  the  Bell.     "  Hundreds  of 

years" 

ERNEST  RHYS. 


THE  LEAF  BURNERS 

UNDER  two  oak  trees 

on  top  of  the  fell, 
With  an  old  hawthorn  hedge 

to  hold  off  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  leaf  burners 

brushing  the  leaves 
With  their  long  brooms 

into  the  blaze. 
Above  them  the  sky 

scurried  along 
Pale  as  a  plate, 

and  peered  thro*  the  oaks, 
While  the  hurrying  wind 

harried  the  hedge. 
But  fast  as  they  swept 

feeding  the  leaves 
Into  the  flame 

that  flickered  and  fumed.. 


134  LIFE   AND   DEATH 

The  wind,  the  tree-shaker, 

shaking  the  boughs, 
Whirled  others  down 

withered  and  wan — 
Summer's  small  folk, 

faded  and  fain 
To  give  up  their  life; 

earth  unto  earth, 
Ashes  to  ashes, 

life  unto  death. 

Far  on  the  fell 

where  the  road  ran, 
I  heard  the  men  march, 

in  the  mouth  of  the  wind: 
And  the  leaf  burners  heard 

and  leaned  down  their  heads, 
Brow  upon  broom, 

and  let  the  leaves  lie, 
And  counted  their  kin 

that  crossed  over  sea, 
And  left  wife  and  wean 

to  fight  in  the  war. 

Forth  over  fell 

I  fared  on  my  way; 
Yet  often  looked  back, 

when  the  wind  blew, 
To  see  the  flames  coil 

like  a  curl  of  bright  hair 


ERNEST  RHYS  135 

Round  the  face  of  a  child — 

a  flower  of  fire, 
Beneath  the  long  boughs 

where  lush  and  alive, 
The  leaves  flourished  long, 

loving  the  sun. 

Much  I  thought  then 

of  men  that  went  forth, 
Or  dropt  like  the  leaves, 

to  die  and  to  live; 
While  the  leaf  burners 

with  their  long  brooms 
Drew  them  together 

on  the  day  of  their  death. 
I  wondered  at  that, 

walking  the  fell — 
Feeling  the  wind 

that  wafted  the  leaves 
And  set  their  souls 

free  of  the  smoke, 
Free  of  the  dead, 

speeding  the  flame 
To  spire  on  the  air — 

a  spark  that  should  spring 
In  me,  man  of  men; 

last  of  the  leaves. 

ERNEST  RHYS. 


136  LIFE   AND   DEATH 


A   FIELD   IN   LUDWELL 

I'M  Barter's  now:  last  year  for  Gatehouse  I 
Nurtured  a  pretty  crop  of  vetch  and  rye. 
When  Barter's  dead,  some  new-named  man  will  say, 
"  All  this  is  mine,"  and  go  the  deathward  way. 
Rye,  vetch  and  man,  all  to  the  seasons  yield 
While  I  lie  low,  the  same  old  smiling  field. 

W.  J.  IBBERT. 


PART  VIII 
FREE    VERSE 


PART   VIIL— FREE    VERSE 

WE  sometimes  meet  with  a  form  of  poetry — of  which 
several  examples  have  already  been  quoted  in  this 
book — that  seems  to  kick  over  the  traces  altogether 
with  regard  to  metre  and  rhyme,  and  do  just  what 
it  likes.  On  reading  this  kind  of  poetry  for  the  first 
time — '  Vers  Libre '  it  is  called — one  may  gather  the 
impression  that  it  is  without  form;  but  certainly  not 
void.  The  thought  is  great,  its  expression  is  beautiful, 
anditiscertainly  notprose.  The  question  is,  is  itpoetry  ? 

If  one  examines  the  many  beautiful  poems  con- 
tained in  the  Bible,  one  is  aware  that  the  effect  does 
not  depend  on  metre,  nor  on  rhyme,  but  upon  the 
fact  that  every  thought  is  told  again  in  different 
language,  or  in  another  metaphor — a  mode  of  ex- 
pression that  is  called  Parallelism.  Again,  old  Eng- 
lish poetry  depends  for  its  effect  on  Alliteration — 
certain  words  in  each  line  beginning  with  the  same 
letter — as  in  the  poem  called  The  Leaf  Burners. 
Japanese  poetry — called  Hokku — consists  of  little 
poems  expressing  a  single  thought,  and  containing  a 
small  definite  number  of  monosyllables.  Rhyme,  on 
which  the  effect  of  so  much  English  poetry  depends, 
is  a  comparatively  late  importation  from  France. 

Thus  it  can  be  seen  clearly  that  the  poets  of  differ- 
ent nations  and  different  periods  have  chosen  to 
express  themselves  in  various  ways;  and  it  is  only 
because  we  are  so  used  to  exact  form,  and  metre 
139 


140  FREE  VERSE 

and  rhyme,  that  we  are  predisposed  to  think  that 
verse  that  discards  them  is  not  poetry  at  all. 

Yet  this  poetry — new  to  some  of  us,  though  not 
really  new— does  depend  on  a  certain  mode  of  ex- 
pression, and  this  mode  is  called  Cadence.  The 
'  base  '  or  '  unit '  of  this  free  verse  is  not  a  line 
consisting  of  a  definite  number  of  '  feet/  or  '  beats/ 
but  a  whole  '  strophe/  It  is  like  running  round  a 
track  in  a  given  time.  You  may  rush  ahead,  and 
then  loiter;  you  may  pause,  and  then  hurry  on ;  you 
may  take  many  steps  or  few;  but  you  must  finish 
the  round  in  the  time  appointed.  This  is  what 
the  poet  does:  he  changes  his  pace  to  express  the 
change  and  sequence  of  thought  in  his  mind. 

And  after  all,  if  a  poet  is  not  to  express  himself  in 
his  own  way,  who  is  to  lay  down  the  law,  and  make 
rules,  saying  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther  "?  Take  for 
example  the  great  American  poet  Walt  Whitman. 
The  task  he  set  himself  was  to  write  the  poetry  of 
Democracy;  to  invent,  as  it  were,  a  mode  and  a 
*  language '  by  which  the  great  free  nation  of 
America  could  adequately  express  itself.  He  refused 
to  be  bound  by  the  rules  and  conventions  of  Euro- 
pean verse.  His  sympathy  and  breadth  of  view  were 
so  universal  that  they  could  not  be  confined  within 
the  old  limits.  His  adverse  critics  say  that  he  was  a 
genius  who  was  too  indolent  to  fashion  and  practise 
forms;  but  it  is  fairer  to  allow  that  at  least  he  was 
a  great  musician  who  built  up  vast  symphonies  of 
thought.  It  would  be  fairer,  too,  for  those  who  can- 


E.   V.   LUCAS  141 

not  feel  the  greatness  and  beauty  of  Walt  Whitman's 
Out  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking,  nor  of  W.  E. 
Henley's  A  late  lark  twitters  from  the  quiet  skies,  to 
admit  that  it  may  be  a  want  in  themselves  rather 
than  in  the  poets. 

Very  modern  poets  of  this  school  have  gone  a  step 
farther.  They  refuse  to  be  bound  by  any  of  the  old 
formalities;  and  their  poetry  is  itself  a  revolt.  Ex- 
pression— self  -expression — is  their  aim;  and  though 
the  effect  is  often  somewhat  violent — in  such  a  phrase, 
for  instance,  as  "  the  sun's  hot  eyelashes/'  or  "  the 
breakfast-table  offers  itself  in  flat  surrender," — it  is 
never  dull  or  uninteresting,  and  often  very  brilliant. 

The  poem  called  Jack  has  been  placed  first  in  this 
section,  because  subject  and  cadence  are  easy  to 
follow,  and  one  cannot  but  be  fascinated  by  its  light- 
ness of  touch — so  easy  to  spoil.  Alter  the  cadence  in, 
say,  verse  9,  and  the  effect  is  gone. 

JACK 

i 

EVERY  village  has  its  Jack,  but  no  village  ever  had 
quite  so  fine  a  Jack  as  ours: — 

So  picturesque, 

Versatile, 

Irresponsible, 

Powerful, 

Hedonistic, 

And  lovable  a  Jack  as  ours. 


142  FREE  VERSE 

2 

How  Jack  lived  none  knew,  for  he  rarely  did  any  work. 
True,    he  set   night-lines   for  eels,   and   invariably 

caught  one, 
Often  two, 
Sometimes  three; 
While  very  occasionally  he  had  a  day's  harvesting  or 

hay-making. 

And  yet  he  always  found  enough  money  for  tobacco, 
With  a  little  over  for  beer,  though  he  was  no  soaker. 

3 

.  Jack  had  a  wife. 
A  soulless,  savage  woman  she  was,  who  disapproved 

volubly  of  his  idle  ways. 

But  the  only  result  was  to  make  him  stay  out  longer, 
(Like  Rip  Van  Winkle). 

4 
Jack  had  a  big  black  beard,  and  a  red  shirt,  which 

was  made  for  another. 
And  no  waistcoat. 
His  boots  were  somebody  else's; 
He  wore  the  Doctor's  coat, 
And  the  Vicar's  trousers. 
Personally,  I  gave  him  a  hat,  but  it  was  too  small. 

5 

Everybody  liked  Jack. 
The  Vicar  liked  him,  although  he  never  went  to  church. 


E.   V.   LUCAS  143 

Indeed,  he  was  a  cheerful  Pagan,  with  no  temptation 

to  break  more  than  the  Eighth  Commandment, 

and  no  ambition  as  a  sinner. 
The  Curate  liked  him,  although  he  had  no  simpering 

daughters. 

The  Doctor  liked  him,  although  he  was  never  ill. 
I  liked  him  too — chiefly  because  of  his  perpetual 

good  temper,  and  his  intimacy  with  Nature,  and 

his  capacity  for  colouring  cutties. 
The  girls  liked  him,  because  he  brought  them  the 

first  wild  roses  and  the  sweetest  honeysuckle; 
Also,  because  he  could  flatter  so  outrageously. 

6 

But  the  boys  loved  him. 
They  followed  him  in  little  bands: 
Jack  was  their  hero. 
And  no  wonder,  for  he  could  hit  a  running  rabbit 

with  a  stone. 
And    cut    them    long,    straight    fishing-poles    and 

equilateral  catty  forks ; 
And  he  always  knew  of  a  fresh  nest. 
Besides,  he  could  make  a  thousand  things  with  his 

old  pocket-knife. 

7 

How  good  he  was  at  cricket  too ! 
On  the  long  summer  evenings  he  would  saunter  to 

the  green  and  watch  the  lads  at  play, 
And  by  and  by  someone  would  offer  him  a  few  knocks. 


144  FREE  VERSE 

Then  the  Doctor'scoat  would  be  carefully  detached,  and 
Jack  would  spit  on  his  hands,  and  brandish  the  bat, 

And  away  the  ball  would  go,  north  and  south  and 
east  and  west, 

And  sometimes  bang  into  the  zenith. 

For  Jack  had  little  science : 

Upon  each  ball  he  made  the  same  terrific  and  mag- 
nificent onslaught, 

Whether  half  volley,  or  full  pitch,  or  long  hop,  or  leg 
break,  or  off  break,  or  shooter,  or  yorker. 

And  when  the  stumps  fell  he  would  cheerfully  set 
them  up  again,  while  his  white  teeth  flashed  in 
the  recesses  of  his  beard. 


The  only  persons  who  were  not  conspicuously  fond 

of  Jack  were  his  wife,  and  the  schoolmaster,  and 

the  head-keeper. 
The  schoolmaster  had  an  idea  that  if  Jack  were 

hanged  there  would  be  no  more  truants; 
His    wife    would    attend    the    funeral   without    an 

extraordinary  show  of  grief; 
And  the  head-keeper  would  mutter,  "  There's  one 

poacher  less." 

9 
Jack  was  quite  as  much  a  part  of  the  village  as  the 

church  spire; 
And  if  any  of  us  lazied  along  by  the  river  in  the  dusk 

of  the  evening — 


E.   V.   LUCAS  145 

Waving  aside  nebulae  of  gnats, 

Turning  head  quickly  at  the  splash  of  a  jumping  fish, 

Peering  where  the  water  chuckled  over  a  vanishing 

water-rat — 
And  saw  not  Jack's  familiar  form  bending  over  his 

lines, 

And  smelt  not  his  vile  shag, 
We  should  feel  a  loneliness,  a  vague  impression  that 

something  was  wrong. 

10 

For  ten  years  Jack  was  always  the  same, 

Never  growing  older, 

Or  richer, 

Or  tidier, 

Never   knowing   that   we   had   a   certain   pride   in 

possessing  him. 
Then   there  came   a  tempter  with  tales  of  easily 

acquired  wealth,  and  Jack  went  away  in  his 

company. 

ii 


146  FREE  VERSE 

The  Vicar,  I  believe,  would  like  to  offer  public  prayer 
for  the  return  of  the  wanderer. 

And  the  Doctor,  I  know,  is  a  little  unhinged,  and 
curing  people  out  of  pure  absence  of  mind. 

For  my  part,  I  have  hope;  and  the  trousers  I  dis- 
carded last  week  will  not  be  given  away  just  yet. 

E.  V.  LUCAS. 


THE  LUMBERMEN'S  CAMP 
(SONG  OF  THE  BROAD-AXE) 

LUMBERMEN  in  their  winter  camp,  day-break  in  the 

woods,  stripes  of  snow  on  the  limbs  of  trees,  the 

occasional  snapping, 
The  glad  clear  sound  of  one's  voice,  the  merry  song,  the 

natural  life  of  the  woods,  the  strong  day's  work, 
The  blazing  fire  at  night,  the  sweet  taste  of  supper,  the 

talk,  the  bed  of  hemlock  boughs,  and  the  bear-skin. 

WALT  WHITMAN. 

OUT   OF  THE  CRADLE  ENDLESSLY 
ROCKING 

i 

OUT  of  the  cradle  endlessly  rocking, 

Out  of  the  mocking-bird's  throat,  the  musical  shuttle, 

Out  of  the  Ninth-month  midnight, 

Over  the  sterile  sands,  and  the  fields  beyond,  where 

the    child,    leaving    his    bed,    wander'd    alone, 

bare-headed,  barefoot, 


WALT   WHITMAN  147 

Down  from  the  shower'd  halo, 

Up  from  the  mystic  play  of  shadows,  twining  and 

twisting  as  if  they  were  alive, 
Out  from  the  patches  of  briers  and  blackberries, 
From  the  memories  of  the  bird  that  chanted  to  me, 
From  your  memories,  sad  brother — from  the  fitful 

risings  and  fallings  I  heard, 
From  under  that  yellow  half-moon,  late-risen,  and 

swollen  as  if  with  tears, 
From  those  beginning  notes  of  sickness  and  love, 

there  in  the  transparent  mist, 
From  the  thousand  responses  of  my  heart,  never  to 

cease, 

From  the  myriad  thence-aroused  words, 
From  the  word  stronger  and  more  delicious  than  any, 
From  such,  as  now  they  start,  the  scene  revisiting, 
As  a  flock,  twittering,  rising,  or  overhead  passing, 
Borne  hither — ere  all  eludes  me,  hurriedly, 
A  man — yet  by  these  tears  a  little  boy  again, 
Throwing  myself  on  the  sand,  confronting  the  waves, 
I,  chanter  of  pains  and  joys,  uniter  of  here  and 

hereafter, 
Taking  all  hints  to  use  them — but  swiftly  leaping 

beyond  them, 
A  reminiscence  sing. 

2 

Once,  Paumanok, 

When  the  snows  had  melted — when  the  lilac-scent  was 
in  the  air,  and  the  Fifth-month  grass  was  growing, 


148  FREE   VERSE 

Up  this  sea-shore,  in  some  briers, 

Two  guests  from  Alabama — two  together, 

And  their  nest,  and  four  light-green  eggs,  spotted 

with  brown, 

And  every  day  the  he-bird,  to  and  fro,  near  at  hand, 
And  every  day  the  she-bird,  crouch'd  on  her  nest, 

silent,  with  bright  eyes, 
And  every  day  I,  a  curious  boy,  never  too  close, 

never  disturbing  them, 
Cautiously  peering,  absorbing,  translating. 

3 

Shine  I  shine  !  shine  ! 

Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  Sun  ! 

While  we  bask — we  two  together. 

Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  South,  or  winds  blow  North, 
Day  come  white,  or  night  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together. 

4 

Till  of  a  sudden, 

May -be  kill'd,  unknown  to  her  mate, 
One  forenoon  the  she-bird  crouch'd  not  on  the  nest, 
Nor  returned  that  afternoon,  nor  the  next, 
Nor  ever  appear'd  again. 


WALT   WHITMAN  149 

And  thenceforward,  all  summer,  in  the  sound  of  the 

sea, 
And  at  night,  under  the  full  of  the  moon,  in  calmer 

weather, 

Over  the  hoarse  surging  of  the  sea, 
Or  flitting  from  brier  to  brier  by  day, 
I  saw,  I  heard  at  intervals,  the  remaining  one,  the 

he-bird, 
The  solitary  guest  from  Alabama. 

5 

Blow  !  blow  !  blow  ! 

Blow  up,  sea-winds,  along  PaumanoKs  shore  ! 

I  wait  and  I  wait,  till  you  blow  my  mate  to  me. 

6 

Yes,  when  the  stars  glistened, 

All  night  long,  on  the  prong  of  a  moss-scallop'd  stake, 

Down,  almost  amid  the  slapping  waves, 

Sat  the  lone  singer,  wonderful,  causing  tears. 

He  calTd  on  his  mate; 

He  pour'd  forth  the  meanings  which  I,  of  all  men, 
know. 

Yes,  my  brother,  I  know; 

The  rest  might  not — but  I  have  treasured  every  note; 

For  once,  and  more  than  once,  dimly,  down  to  the 

beach  gliding, 
Silent,  avoiding  the  moonbeams,  blending  myself  with 

the  shadows, 


i5o  FREE  VERSE 

Recalling  now  the  obscure  shapes,  the  echoes,  the 

sounds  and  sights  after  their  sorts, 
The  white  arms  out  in  the  breakers  tirelessly  tossing, 
I,  with  bare  feet,  a  child,  the  wind  wafting  my  hair, 
Listened  long  and  long. 

Listen'd,  to  keep,  to  sing — now  translating  the  notes, 
Following  you,  my  brother. 


i 


7 

Soothe  !  soothe  !  soothe  ! 
Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 
And  again  another  behind,  embracing  and  lapping, 

every  one  close. 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon — it  rose  late  ; 
0  it  is  lagging — 0  I  think  it  is  heavy  with  love,  with 
love. 

0  madly  the  sea  pushes,  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love — with  love. 

0  night !  do  I  not  see  my  love  fluttering  out  there  among 

the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the  white  ? 

Loud  !  loud  !  loud  ! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  I 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves  ; 

Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here,  is  here  ; 

You  must  know  who  I  am,  my  love. 


WALT   WHITMAN  151 

Low-hanging  moon  I 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ? 

0  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 

0  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer* 

Land  !  land !  0  land  ! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  0  I  think  you  could  give  me  my 

mate  back  again,  if  you  only  would  ; 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her  dimly  whichever  way  I  look. 

0  rising  stars ! 

Perhaps  the  one  I  want  so  much  will  rise,  will  rise  with 
some  of  you. 

0  throat  !   0  trembling  throat ! 

Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere ! 

Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth  ; 

Somewhere  listening  to  catch  you,  must  be  the  one  I  want. 

Shake  out,  carols ! 

Solitary  here — the  night's  carols ! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  Death's  carols  I 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  I 

0,  under  that  moon,  where  she  droops  almost  down  into 

the  sea ! 
0  reckless,  despairing  carols. 

But  soft !  sink  low  ; 
Soft  I  let  me  just  murmur  ; 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment,  you  husky-noised  sea  ; 
For  somewhere  I  believe  I  heard  my  mate  responding 
to  me. 


152  FREE  VERSE 

So  faint — I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen  ; 
But  not  altogether  still,  for  then  she  might  not  come 
immediately  to  me. 

Hither,  my  lotve  ! 

Here  I  am  !  Here  ! 

With  this  just- sustained  note  I  announce  myself  to  you; 

This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy' d  elsewhere  ! 
That  is  the  whistle  of  the  wind — it  is  not  my  voice  ; 
That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray  ; 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

0  darkness  !  0  in  vain  ! 

0  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

0  brown  halo  in  the  sky,  near  the  moon,  drooping  upon 

the  sea  ! 
0  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  I 

0  throat  I  0  throbbing  heart ! 

0  all — and  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 

Yet  I  murmur,  murmur  on  ! 

0  murmurs — you  yourselves  make  me  continue  to  singt 
I  know  not  why. 

0  past  I  0  life  !  0  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air — in  the  woods — over  fields  ; 
Loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  ! 
But  my  love  no  more,  no  more  with  me  ! 
We  two  together  no  more. 


WALT   WHITMAN  153 

8 

The  aria  sinking; 

All  else  continuing — the  stars  shining, 

The  winds  blowing — the  notes  of  the  bird  continuous 
echoing, 

With  angry  moans  the  fierce  old  mother  incessantly 
moaning, 

On  the  sands  of  Paumanok's  shore,  grey  and  rustling; 

The  yellow  half-moon  enlarged,  sagging  down,  droop- 
ing, the  face  of  the  sea  almost  touching; 

The  boy  ecstatic — with  his  bare  feet  the  waves,  with 
his  hair  the  atmosphere  dallying, 

The  love  in  the  heart  long  pent,  now  loose,  now  at 
last  tumultuously  bursting, 

The  aria's  meaning,  the  ears,  the  Soul,  swiftly  de- 
positing, 

The  strange  tears  down  the  cheeks  coursing, 

The  colloquy  there — the  trio — each  uttering, 

The  undertone — the  savage  old  mother,  incessantly 
1  crying, 

To  the  boy's  Soul's,  questions  sullenly  timing — some 
drown'd  secret  hissing, 

To  the  outsetting  bard  of  love. 

9 

Demon  or  bird !  (said  the  boy's  soul,) 
Is  it  indeed  toward  your  mate  you  sing?  or  is  it 

mostly  to  me  ? 

For  I,  that  was  a  child,  my  tongue's  use  sleeping, 
Now  I  have  heard  you, 
Now  in  a  moment  I  know  what  I  am  for — I  awake, 


154  FREE  VERSE 

And  already  a  thousand  singers — &  thousand  songs, 
clearer,  louder  and  more  sorrowful  than  yours, 

A  thousand  warbling  echoes  have  started  to  life 
within  me, 

Never  to  die. 

O  you  singer,  solitary,  singing  by  yourself — projecting 

me; 
O  solitary  me,  listening — never  more  shall  I  cease 

perpetuating  you; 

Nevermore  shall  I  escape,  never  more  the  reverberations, 
Never  more  the  cries  of  unsatisfied  love  be  absent 

from  me, 
Never  again  leave  me  to  be  the  peaceful  child  I  was 

before  what  there,  in  the  night, 
By  the  sea,  under  the  yellow  and  sagging  moon, 
The  messenger  there  aroused — the  fire,  the  sweet  hell 

within, 
The  unknown  want,  the  destiny  of  me. 

O  give  me  the  clue !  (it  lurks  in  the  night  here  some- 
where;) 

O  if  I  am  to  have  so  much,  let  me  have  more ! 

O  a  word!  O  what  is  my  destination?  (I  fear  it  is 
henceforth  chaos ;) 

O  how  joys,  dreads,  convolutions,  human  shapes,  and 
all  shapes,  spring  as  from  graves  around  me ! 

O  phantoms!  you  cover  all  the  land  and  all  the  sea! 

O  I  cannot  see  in  the  dimness  whether  you  smile  or 
frown  upon  me; 

O  vapour,  a  look,  a  word !  O  well-beloved ! 

O  you  dear  women's  and  men's  phantoms ! 


WALT   WHITMAN  155 

A  word  then,  (for  I  will  conquer  it,) 

The  word  final,  superior  to  all, 

Subtle,  sent  up — what  is  it? — I  listen; 

Are  you  whispering  it,  and  have  been  all  the  time, 

you  sea-waves  ? 
Is  that  it  from  your  liquid  rims  and  wet  sands  ? 

10 

Whereto  answering,  the  sea, 
Delaying  not,  hurrying  not, 
Whisper'd  me  through  the  night,  and  very  plainly 

before  daybreak, 

Lisp'd  to  me  the  low  and  delicious  word  DEATH; 
And  again  Death — ever  Death,  Death,  Death, 
Hissing  melodious,  neither  like  the  bird,  nor  like  my 

aroused  child's  heart, 

But  edging  near,  as  privately  for  me,  rustling  at  my  feet, 
Creeping  thence  steadily  up  to  my  ears,  and  laving 

me  softly  all  over, 
Death,  Death,  Death,  Death,  Death. 

Which  I  do  not  forget, 

But  fuse  the  song  of  my  dusky  demon  and  brother, 

That  he  sang  to  me  in  the  moonlight  on  Paumanok's 

grey  beach, 

With  the  thousand  responsive  songs,  at  random, 
My  own  songs,  awaked  from  that  hour; 
And  with  them  the  key,  the  word  up  from  the  waves, 
The  word  of  the  sweetest  song,  and  all  songs, 
That  strong  and  delicious  word  which,  creeping  to  my 

feet, 
The  sea  whisper'd  me.  WALT  WHITMAN. 


156  FREE  VERSE 

THE   PARROT 

("Psittachus  eois  imitatrix  ales  ab  Indis."— Ovid.} 

THE  parrot's  voice  snaps  out — 
No  good  to  contradict — 
What  he  says  he'll  say  again: 
Dry  facts,  like  biscuits,— 

His  voice  and  vivid  colours 

Of  his  breast  and  wings 

Are  immemoriably  old; 

Old  dqwagers  dressed  in  crimped  satin 

Boxed  in  their  rooms 

Like  specimens  beneath  a  glass 

Inviolate — and  never  changing, 

Their  memory  of  emotions  dead ; 

The  ardour  of  their  summers 

Sprayed  like  camphor 

On  their  silken  parasols 

Intissued  in  a  cupboard. 

Reflective,  but  with  never  a  thought 
The  parrot  sways  upon  his  ivory  perch — 
Then  gravely  turns  a  somersault 
Through  rings  nailed  in  the  roof — 
Much  as  the  sun  performs  his  antics 
As  he  climbs  the  aerial  bridge 
We  only  see 
Through  crystal  prisms  in  a  falling  rain. 

SACHEVERELL  SITWELL. 


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